Post by Richimal on Oct 5, 2005 13:11:05 GMT -5
[glow=red,2,300]Vice[/glow]
The man with all the answers. Or so many thought of the being, who now sat. Sat upon the stump of a cut down tree. A simple white cloth tied over his blind eyes, with heavy robes etched with arcane symbols. Robes that were supposed to mean something, was supposed to inspire hope. A being who people often came to for help, for answers. They used to come to him, asking for direction, how they could bend fate to their will. Or at least not get caught in its path. Or simply find the path that was most comfortable, so that fate could smile upon them. So they could sit in the warmth and glow of something good and just. And on occasion, even those of questionable and even sometimes out right evil of heart would plead upon his knowledge of what was to come. Vice was a good man, and as he saw many things. He always helped those who came to him for answers, or wisdom. It wasn't always the answer they wanted, or needed. It wasn't even always the truth. Simply what Vice knew they needed to hear. Tell them of their defeat, so they became angry and emotional. For perhaps Vice knew that by letting their emotions rule them, and anger build the heat of their actions ... may be their only way of survival. Perhaps he'd seen that they were afraid of death, and in battle or war, so afraid of death they were, that it found them all the easier. But once Vice told them they would die ... they were no longer afraid. They would eventually have had enough time to prepare themselves, and get used to the idea. And on the battle field, unafraid and undaunted ... death could not find them ... So many things had Vice had a hand in. So many lives he'd saved, and helped. And even a few he had known would die, no matter what Vice said or did. Even those he tried to deliver into death as painlessly as he could. But ... but what he saw now ...
An elbow was placed upon a knee, letting his chin rest upon his palm, his brows leveled downward, as if the world sat upon the bridge of his eyes. And it did, in a way. His mind was tormented by the deeds to come, for the wheel of fate was turning. He of all people ... knew it was. He saw it, couldn't help but view the indiscriminate wheel churn, and mow people down. All those lives, good and evil. And ... he couldn't, or at least wouldn't do anything about it. For after all he had a few options, but none of which were pleasant and worth searching out. None of which would ease Vice's mind, nor make the future any less bloody. The outcome? Who knew? Vice knew. Unfortunately, the way he saw things, was through all of the variables. Success, defeat, routed, stead fast, so many more ... a chain link of trials and tribulations. Some were more likely than others, two of witch were all but assured. But then ... that's the way it always was. Success or defeat, two extremes at opposite sides of the spectrum. But whatever the outcome, death surrounded them all at its core. The very soul of all the myriad of paths, and possibilities, was suffocated by a mass feeling of death and dread. And the catalyst. The catalyst was just as bad as the being it tried to overcome. Uncaring at the war to come, emotionless as to the lives that would be lost. Good men and women, disreputable miscreants and demons of men. There would be no safety for any of them. But all it could, or would think about, was defeating ... him, at all costs. And all he could think about, was defeating it at all costs. Was Vice the only one who seemed to care about the little people? Little people. Such a horrid understatement. Rough warriors all, legions of men of honor and duty. Those willing to give up their lives for their honest and well deserved beliefs. Maybe it did care, Vice honestly couldn't be sure. He was a prophet, not a telepath. Maybe even he cared. Vice was not immune to emotion, and at the moment it ruled his thoughts. The pain and anger he felt at the overwhelming numbers of those to fall drove him to madness. However, despite what he wished to do, and though he so desperately strived for action, he would sit. There was nothing he could do to save them. This war was far too long in process, to well thought out. Put off for far too long. Vice was a seer and a prophet, he was not the tide changers that they were. He was little fish compared to them.
But, he would be there. He felt a kinship to those people that were about to die. After all ... he'd already seen them die. With his gift came a curse. A terrible curse and price Vice paid with every vision and gift of sight. He knew those people. Saw them on an intimate level. Saw all the things they were going to do with their life, the wife they would meet, the toils they would suffer through, the sons and daughters they would sire. And then all of it stopped in the span of a heartbeat. As their lifeblood fell from their bodies. Vice would often cry, as he began to see all those possible paths and outcomes of their lives, slowly melt away, become eviscerated by the truth and finality of death. And Vice for all his sight, and all his prophetic abilities, could do nothing but watch, and feel the brunt and weight of their lives. Each individual soul, who had desire, and wanted something to come of their life. Not him or it, knew them in such a way as Vice. Perhaps to strong a boast, but Vice couldn't help but seeing their faces, over, and over again. A whirlpool of faces, men and women, beasts and demons, all spiraling together in a sea of crimson. Thin hands were clenched into fists, anger scorching his features, each individual piece of his grey hair trembling with hate for the both of them.
Again Vice would sigh, his shoulders drooping beneath the filth of his heavy robes. As the sudden anger left him, so did what seemed of the little energy he had left. The cloth about his eyes become sodden, as tears fell against them freely. All the while he searched, he siphoned and weeded through all of the possible scenarios within his minds eye. All the while becoming more frustrated and malcontent. And despite all his desire and want to stop this bloodshed. There would be no talking sense into it, it had wanted this for far too long. And he couldn't rightly go to him, even he could see the good of his demise. But all those people caught in their insufferable war! One thing he was sure of. The deeds about to be wrought would live forever in infamy and legend. Bards would sing of deeds from both sides. Of heroes made, and unhinged. Leaders born from ashes, and those torn down in the blaze of war. People would rejoice, and people would mourn. War was afoot. And Vice felt the weight of all their lives.
"Damn you," came the withered response, as he sat alone on his stump. "damn you both."
The man with all the answers. Or so many thought of the being, who now sat. Sat upon the stump of a cut down tree. A simple white cloth tied over his blind eyes, with heavy robes etched with arcane symbols. Robes that were supposed to mean something, was supposed to inspire hope. A being who people often came to for help, for answers. They used to come to him, asking for direction, how they could bend fate to their will. Or at least not get caught in its path. Or simply find the path that was most comfortable, so that fate could smile upon them. So they could sit in the warmth and glow of something good and just. And on occasion, even those of questionable and even sometimes out right evil of heart would plead upon his knowledge of what was to come. Vice was a good man, and as he saw many things. He always helped those who came to him for answers, or wisdom. It wasn't always the answer they wanted, or needed. It wasn't even always the truth. Simply what Vice knew they needed to hear. Tell them of their defeat, so they became angry and emotional. For perhaps Vice knew that by letting their emotions rule them, and anger build the heat of their actions ... may be their only way of survival. Perhaps he'd seen that they were afraid of death, and in battle or war, so afraid of death they were, that it found them all the easier. But once Vice told them they would die ... they were no longer afraid. They would eventually have had enough time to prepare themselves, and get used to the idea. And on the battle field, unafraid and undaunted ... death could not find them ... So many things had Vice had a hand in. So many lives he'd saved, and helped. And even a few he had known would die, no matter what Vice said or did. Even those he tried to deliver into death as painlessly as he could. But ... but what he saw now ...
An elbow was placed upon a knee, letting his chin rest upon his palm, his brows leveled downward, as if the world sat upon the bridge of his eyes. And it did, in a way. His mind was tormented by the deeds to come, for the wheel of fate was turning. He of all people ... knew it was. He saw it, couldn't help but view the indiscriminate wheel churn, and mow people down. All those lives, good and evil. And ... he couldn't, or at least wouldn't do anything about it. For after all he had a few options, but none of which were pleasant and worth searching out. None of which would ease Vice's mind, nor make the future any less bloody. The outcome? Who knew? Vice knew. Unfortunately, the way he saw things, was through all of the variables. Success, defeat, routed, stead fast, so many more ... a chain link of trials and tribulations. Some were more likely than others, two of witch were all but assured. But then ... that's the way it always was. Success or defeat, two extremes at opposite sides of the spectrum. But whatever the outcome, death surrounded them all at its core. The very soul of all the myriad of paths, and possibilities, was suffocated by a mass feeling of death and dread. And the catalyst. The catalyst was just as bad as the being it tried to overcome. Uncaring at the war to come, emotionless as to the lives that would be lost. Good men and women, disreputable miscreants and demons of men. There would be no safety for any of them. But all it could, or would think about, was defeating ... him, at all costs. And all he could think about, was defeating it at all costs. Was Vice the only one who seemed to care about the little people? Little people. Such a horrid understatement. Rough warriors all, legions of men of honor and duty. Those willing to give up their lives for their honest and well deserved beliefs. Maybe it did care, Vice honestly couldn't be sure. He was a prophet, not a telepath. Maybe even he cared. Vice was not immune to emotion, and at the moment it ruled his thoughts. The pain and anger he felt at the overwhelming numbers of those to fall drove him to madness. However, despite what he wished to do, and though he so desperately strived for action, he would sit. There was nothing he could do to save them. This war was far too long in process, to well thought out. Put off for far too long. Vice was a seer and a prophet, he was not the tide changers that they were. He was little fish compared to them.
But, he would be there. He felt a kinship to those people that were about to die. After all ... he'd already seen them die. With his gift came a curse. A terrible curse and price Vice paid with every vision and gift of sight. He knew those people. Saw them on an intimate level. Saw all the things they were going to do with their life, the wife they would meet, the toils they would suffer through, the sons and daughters they would sire. And then all of it stopped in the span of a heartbeat. As their lifeblood fell from their bodies. Vice would often cry, as he began to see all those possible paths and outcomes of their lives, slowly melt away, become eviscerated by the truth and finality of death. And Vice for all his sight, and all his prophetic abilities, could do nothing but watch, and feel the brunt and weight of their lives. Each individual soul, who had desire, and wanted something to come of their life. Not him or it, knew them in such a way as Vice. Perhaps to strong a boast, but Vice couldn't help but seeing their faces, over, and over again. A whirlpool of faces, men and women, beasts and demons, all spiraling together in a sea of crimson. Thin hands were clenched into fists, anger scorching his features, each individual piece of his grey hair trembling with hate for the both of them.
Again Vice would sigh, his shoulders drooping beneath the filth of his heavy robes. As the sudden anger left him, so did what seemed of the little energy he had left. The cloth about his eyes become sodden, as tears fell against them freely. All the while he searched, he siphoned and weeded through all of the possible scenarios within his minds eye. All the while becoming more frustrated and malcontent. And despite all his desire and want to stop this bloodshed. There would be no talking sense into it, it had wanted this for far too long. And he couldn't rightly go to him, even he could see the good of his demise. But all those people caught in their insufferable war! One thing he was sure of. The deeds about to be wrought would live forever in infamy and legend. Bards would sing of deeds from both sides. Of heroes made, and unhinged. Leaders born from ashes, and those torn down in the blaze of war. People would rejoice, and people would mourn. War was afoot. And Vice felt the weight of all their lives.
"Damn you," came the withered response, as he sat alone on his stump. "damn you both."
