After death…

November 1st, 2008 · selfhood

dzivah_angel

What do we look forward to on the other side?

To die free is to die alive, but in death we are given true creative control. Most of us will live not being able to fashion or shape the world as we would like, but in the spirit world, the influence of the dead and forgotten over the living is remarkable. To be deified, even if you lived your life as a scoundrel, a vagabond, a miscreant…

…a slave.

I spend a lot of time thinking about my own death. It’s one of the most important events of our lives, yet we deny that it can happen to us, and spend very little time talking about it. But when it happens, who will guide you through it? Who will usher you into your new existence? Better to come to the next life prepared, no?

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Crossroads.

October 27th, 2008 · Life in the Undercity

I was oficially discharged from duty today. I am hardly surprised by this. Politics are heated at this time, and when I pressed others for information, they were unsurprisingly ‘not at liberty to say’. Grand Apothecary Putress is more than likely the pot-stirrer of this murky cauldron. My allegiance to the society, therefore, is no longer. I will still retain quarters with Anastasia and Jansen in the Undercity, who graciously give space for my many trinkets and work-related paraphernalia.

All this expulsion does is leave me more time to consider my evacuation. Whispers amongst my comrades have been made about safe havens. I feel the chill of a watchful shadow on the back of my neck and the low hum of a death rattle that echoes from the past.

Until I have resigned myself to the status of a lowly refugee, I shall eke out my existence in my quarters, imbibing what remains of my liquid pleasure.

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On ascendancy.

October 25th, 2008 · Life in the Undercity

People assume that, due to my difficult childhood, I am not at all superstitious like my Darkspear brethren and prefer to rely on magicka and scientific discovery to lead me through life. That assumption is true for the most part, but I do acknowledge certain Loa and I do incorporate that acknowledgement whilst practicing my acquired faith. It might seem hypocritical, but if you are to call me shrewd in all of my other dealings then you’d understand that even when it comes to the spirit world, I leave nothing to chance.

When I was sold to Jansen and Anastasia, I learned of their devotion to the Cult of Forgotten Shadow. As a lonely creature in a world that is unkind to creatures such as I, the teachings spoke to that part of me that has been crippled and lost. Many Forsaken who throw off the shackles of scourge imprisonment describe the exact same realization; the Light that has left them leaves a void too great to fill without the assurance of power and control over one’s destiny. That I might one day ascend to the place of the dark Loa led me to their place of worship. Respect, tenacity, and power becomes doctrine, but the self-discipline is torturous. Whether or not I shall some day manifest myself into true undeath is uncertain, but I would say that in a world where flesh is short-lived and only death is certain, it is not unwise to learn to manipulate one’s own death for self-gain.

That being said, Churches are fucking barbaric places. And this comes from a woman who was raised in a village built upon mud and shit.

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Lonely nights.

October 24th, 2008 · Life in the Undercity

Faranell has been fidgety around me, uncommon for a forsaken. I am unsure as to whether he shall discharge me, murder me, or infect me. I suspect none of the above will actually bother me; I’ve grown restless and bored without new challenges. Anastasia has been gruesomely cheery of late, I suspect she’s covering for Faranell. Her disgusting physiognomies, those that she can still muster I should say, aren’t helping him any.

The plague bearers have been spotted everywhere. I don’t doubt that he is bitter about this and sees it as some sort of infringement. The chaos has consumed many; they fritter about and store goods, weapons, even money. As if a few silver will be worth anything when the living ceases. No, the only currency that will be worth anything will be a pulse.

I’ve spent my last few nights drinking heavily, I admit. I’m not ready to ascend, I’ve not had my fun yet. But there is little fun to be had of late. My tryst with a young elf is over; he was far too interested in moralizing over his conduct with me and dissecting my actions. I found it all quite senseless and self-righteous. What good is it to torment oneself over morality? As a hedonist, I will always seek pleasure, especially before satisfying a few of this accursed society’s arbitrary rules. If my finding pleasure means I must consent to cause you harm, I most likely will. It is nothing personal, I just want my life to mean so much more than good behavior and hand-wringing before others. I want to feel my own flesh before it is torn away from me for good.

But I admit. I am lonely.

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Arachnophobia.

August 7th, 2008 · random

Dzivah is afraid of spiders.

While I loathe to admit it, I hate spiders. Snakes, I adore. Beasts, I eat. Demons, I tickle.

But spiders?

So many legs… and eyes. Why should anything so ugly be allowed to be so small, too? So that you only can see it from the corners of your eyes? Or notice it once its crawled the length of a limb?

Ugh.

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An Introduction.

June 8th, 2008 · selfhood

I never thought that I would keep a journal. The writing of my thoughts on travel, war, and self seems so vulnerable, as though this book could be snatched away and my private sanctity, my mind, all revealed.

Not that I am presuming to be of interest to anyone; it is hardly the case that my musings would be cataclysm for disaster should they fall into the wrong hands. But ever since I was young, hiding inside of my own head helped me to identify myself as separate from the other children in the village, and steered me towards my destiny. My thoughts insulated me from the insults, the cajoling, the teasing. ‘A filthy little Zulfli’. They derided me for my interests in the arcane. ‘Trickery. Voodoo’. My mind was my only retreat.

To write about it now seems a little frightening. To write at all for something other than the occasional book keeping Faranell submits us to is not unlike an adventure. I could never have thought I would ever be literate, let alone keep a journal. Though I learned to read and write both in Orcish and Gutterspeak for the sake of my profession, writing for pleasure seems to be the new frontier, the unconquered pocket of my mind.

It is currently early in the morning, and the dawn has only just broken. My old life sleeps on another continent. A life lost to me now.

The apothecaries here find me to be foul; a living abberation. I try so hard to assert myself as their equal: to show the Forsaken here that I am not merely a quaint potion doc, but a pyromancer with considerable knowledge of the arcane. I act as though I’ve always been here. That I’ve never been anyone else before this time. I feign ignorance when I hear Zandali spoken. I cringe when I hear Trollish creole spoken. And yet I sometimes want nothing more than to sharpen my tusks and gore my meals, sing loudly and dance and sway to the rush of drums threatening to deafen my ears.

Can my spirit ever leave Sen’jin village?

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