At long last.

July 11th, 2011 · The Primal


He reponds. HE RESPONDS! The temperature in my body goes up even before I read the first word. By the end of it, I am clutching the page and letting out ragged breaths.

Primal. Frostmane. Savage.

Where are you?

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Signs of mental decay.

July 9th, 2011 · The Primal


 

 

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Losing my grip here.
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Overwhelming.

June 9th, 2011 · The Primal


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If I admit that this is beyond my control, then I might lose my very self.

I cannot draw breath without his chill snagging in my blood.

The Primal takes what he pleases.

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Trouble is where I am going to be.

June 7th, 2011 · The Primal


I don’t know what started it all. It has been months since father’s passing, and weeks since Zul’ai’kah began her training as a druid.

I suppose I must have been lonely. I’d found myself caring for two people, one of them dead and in need of a place to lay forever, and one not yet birthed into her true self and still looking for the world to which she belonged. The transition has left me acutely aware of the void. Now that everything has settled: all the dust, all the tears, all the ‘goodbyes’ are expended, I am left to myself once more. Alone.

I suppose that’s what started it all, then. Wandering aimlessly, riding up and down the stone concourses, marveling at our handiwork and at our dedication. Feeling smug and self-satisfied. It leads one to stumble upon trouble, though. That’s when I turned the corner and saw him standing there, effortlessly pelting arrows into a target board from a great distance.

Primal‘. I pause even to write the word, linger over the sound of it in my head, and then test it out on my tongue. ‘Primal‘. FrostmaneSavage. Savage looks and a savage heart. If they even possess such things! No doubt it is a fiction that the Ice trolls have souls.

I turned the corner and demanded passage regardless. For myself, and the bear. Now, the girth of the bear is not the issue, as much as Zul’ai’kah has chided me relentlessly on the issue. “You overfeed it” she hisses. “It shall become spoiled.” Hah! Spoiled? For the rest of its natural life, it carries a burden on it’s back. A magus and her ever-changing whims. No, sister. Stripped of freedom and forced from the nobility of empty, open woodland, the beast of burden is never spoiled. And so if it cannot retain its dignity, then allow it to eat whatever it damn well pleases.

But I digress. The bear’s girth is not the issue. The man standing there as I sought to continue my thoroughfare through the concourse was no small creature. I’d never seen anything like him before. When he stood upright, I lost sight of his face. I craned my neck to inspect every inch of him. Oh, what a great pleasure it was, to study this mass of sweat and sinew as it towered above me like a venerable tree!

I suppose that’s where it should have ended, then. But I couldn’t merely pass the man. Not because of his immovable force, but the force of something unexpected and dwelling within me.

I suppose I must be lonely.

His eyes on my body were like welts. I could almost feel my soul being sucked into his hungry, venomous, soulless body every time his eyes narrowed and his pupils dilated. Savage.Frostmane. Icicle tusks and cold breath. Frozen lips and frostbitten ears. Yet I could have watched him empty an entire quiver, maybe more.

I suddenly remembered my usual disdain for introductions of any sort. Curt words were exchanged, and I thought I’d lost him and his unnatural grip on me. Until yesterday. When I felt his breath on my neck, I was lost to the most pleasant and unexpected of surprises. His breath was warm.

Primal. Frostmane. Savage. 

I suppose I am now the prey.

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It is only blood.

May 24th, 2011 · Finding genesis


Zul’ai’kah left yesterday, to begin her training in druidism. What was left of our father’s hut was crushed in the quake, and with it, her reasons for staying put. She’d never ventured off far, from what she’d told me. After I left, she feared loss greatly and couldn’t bare to leave him alone. It was strange for her to be so candid with me in amidst all the bitterness she is choked up with. I attempted to say something comforting, something to soothe her, and to let her know that familial bonds never die… but such things were never cultivated for me in the first place, and so I fell way short of making her feel anything other than distance.

There are spaces between us, greater than canyons, though we stand so close and share so much blood. But it is only blood.

My sister thinks she can heal me. She thinks I am vandalized by ‘Scourge’, torn apart by self-hatred. Afraid of my own self. She might not be wrong, either. But this is where we part ways, again. She told me to wait for her. Regrettably, I lied. I have always lied to keep a measure of goodwill in situations I don’t care to needlessly erupt. She has truly done me no harm, save the harm of being the channeled focus of every tender thought my father had ever had.

Ah, father. Am I bitter? Yes. And no, that bitterness hasn’t died with him. If anything, it is alive and well. He is dead, I set him ablaze, all too gleefully I lit him up and then mournfully watched him burn, realizing that now, I would never have him again. I am mournful of death, of all the wasted years, and of bad, bad blood.

But it is only blood.

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I bid you farewell.

January 11th, 2011 · Finding genesis


Jatkai left this morning. I thanked him profusely for having saved my life, and he reciprocated his thanks for my having nursed his concussion after the quake. After a few awkward pauses, I told him that perhaps he’d be better off not being in the path of whatever whirlwind it is that seems bent on crushing me.

He laughed, thinking that perhaps I was joking. Only I don’t think I could have been more serious at all in my life. I am deeply troubled. There is no space in my mind right now for this sort of foolishness. Dauneth is gone, as is his calming influence. My father is gone, and the acrid taste of his loss won’t leave my mouth.

I helped Jatkai collect supplies. I spent the morning ambling through the market silently with him. And then, as quickly as he appeared that day on the road from Felwood, he was gone.

They are all gone. All the men in my life, they will go. They will die, or they will falter, or they will leave. And so I sent him away, so as to not watch him become yet another casualty.

This was the right decision.
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Shattered.

November 23rd, 2010 · Diary pages, Finding genesis


I can’t even begin to describe the horrors.

Our world has been shattered, and so too, has my chance of a new life.dizzydiary_nov232010

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Blood ties.

November 15th, 2010 · Finding genesis


My father and I have always been at odds. I am sure that he forever curses the day that I first uttered a word, for not long after that, I learned to vocalize my disobedience.

Father wasn’t deliberately oppressive or sadistic in his approach to raising my sister and I. We weren’t beaten, nor malnourished. It was rather his cruel indifference that burnt me. My earliest memories are of a stark difference between my mother’s touch and my father’s; Mother was gentle, soft, and her cooing would make me passive, sleep-like. My father’s touch was absent, and his voice came to be associated with anxiety. I would hear him calling for me, or for Zul’aih’kah, and whereas my older sister would dutifully and quietly meet his every request, I would run, if only to make him catch me. It only made things worse when he eventually caught and punished me, but perhaps I so desperately wanted his attention that I deliberately set out to defy him at every turn. If I couldn’t have his love, then I’d at least have his ire. I would mean something.

When my mother died, I thought it was a gentle blessing. To have been mated with such a cold, dismissive man. Did she love him that way? Regardless, she was free of him.

We, however, were not.

The last time I saw him, I remember being so hurt that I could not even raise my voice. He laughed at me. I felt about three inches tall. My lips trembled, my chest heaved, and I fumbled over my own feet several times trying to clumsily pack what few ‘belongings’ I had. And even then I had to fight to keep small mementos that had belonged to my mother. “These aren’t leaving the Isles, or I will smash them myself!” he threatened. I left with almost nothing. I had nothing. And I felt as though I were nothing. I told him that I’d never see him again. He shrugged and said that I had disgraced him. Zufli. He had stopped calling me by my own name at that point. Most of the villagers had.

When I left the Isles, people wanted a name again. ‘Who are you?’. At first I clumsily made up a name or two. When I learned how to read and write, I wrote ‘Dzivah‘. A variation of my birth name, that was beautiful to read and to scribe. If you’d read it in a tome, you’d think the author to be powerful, wise, and above all, important

The name of a Magistrix, I thought. Perhaps I would come to greatness with this name. And so I’ve carried it ever since.

When I arrived in Sen’jin village months ago, I kept a low profile. The reclamation effort meant that there wasn’t even all that much time for idle socializing or teary reunions. We had a city to build, after all. But eventually I had to face up to what I’d run away from; that I have a history, and it starts right here, on these Isles.
It meant that I would finally have to confront my father, after all of these years. And, after much internal prodding, I made the first step. Contact was not hard to find, once word of mouth had taken wing. He still lived in the same old hut.

My father’s first word to me was my birth name. I was stunned. His face was old, his features drooped, and his expression plaintive. But the way he said it, it reminded me of my mother, and conjured up feelings both of sadness and joy within my heart.

‘Zeeva.’

‘Father!’

My father wasn’t able to hug me, I knew that. As a grown woman with many failings of her own, I could no longer fault him for not being affectionate toward me. My father would always be as he is, just as the Loa sought him to be. Nothing I could ever say or do would change him. As it turned out, I’d already forgiven him before I’d ever set foot back in the village. All he needed to see was the smile on my face to recognize that.

But my father’s sad expression was tinged with something else. Something familiar and yet, I could not place it’s familiarity from elsewhere into the context of my relationship with him. I relished it and yet, it made me feel cold and guilty. Several days later, a conversation with my older sister shed light on what it was that I saw in his eyes. As his caregiver, she was telling me that he’d asked her to wake him if I were to show up late at night. Finally it dawned on me. He wanted to face me with his eyes open. Awake.

I could never have his love, but finally, I had something.

My father was afraid of me.
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Pained.

September 29th, 2010 · Finding genesis


I have been in the village for days now, in a makeshift camp on the outskirts that houses hundreds of visitors and mercenaries. We begin the assault soon.

I still haven’t seen my father or sister. Even after all these years, the thought of him still puts the fear inside of me. He made me: cold, ugly, heartless and vicious.

I am my father’s daughter.

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Agony.

September 20th, 2010 · Diary pages, Finding genesis


Rescued from death only to be tortured by my feelings? And here I thought I had spent the last decade cultivating a hard, hermetically sealed shell in which to place my heart!

This place conjures up so many uncomfortable feelings. The ones I’d thought I’d buried long ago.
I remember the ridicule, the derision, the sense that I didn’t belong. The scorn on my father’s face. The sad look on my sister’s face. The cruel smirks from strangers.
And yet here I stand, in amongst a throng of my people, bruised and pale, ready to offer my life so readily once more, barely recovered from almost having it taken from me not even three weeks earlier.

I want so badly to cut out whatever part of me remembers how to feel, and put it away so that it will no longer trouble me.

dizzydiary_sept202010

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