The passage of time is a curious thing, when one is left to observe it objectively. Not in and of itself, of course, but how the various realms interact with it. Azeroth turns on and on. Its denizens conquer the dangers which threaten their ways of life, build civilizations, develop cultures, are deemed a danger to another, and so on. A cycle of rising and falling kingdoms. That was not curious. Historians know as much, people are simple too arrogant or too short sighted to learn from it. The Pandaren and Zandalari, perhaps, are the best students of history. No, the curiosity arises when one lessens the scale of observation all the way down to the individual. Mortal races, in particular. The Elves and Draenei are almost too removed from the natural order, in and of itself an irony for the former. Humanity, as will all things, extolls virtue and vice through the clearest lens.
I am fascinated by the fact that men, without failure, seek to eliminate the circumstances which raise them to greatness.
All noble families are guilty of such. Recent events in Kul Tiras reinforce the observation. Empires, kingdoms, townships. Any civilized organization, traced back to its foundation, will prove this to be true. Whether it be inclimate weather, roving beasts, dangerous neighboring civilizations, or magical influence, some small number of men will be forged greater than their fellows. Hardship strengthens them. Toughens them. They become paragons among their people. With sufficient might to challenge their perceived enemies, these men will tame their surroundings. Build walls and lodging, put beasts to the blade, war against neighbors, and either embrace or abolish the occult. They will write of their victories, or others of the time will, and be praised by all. Time will pass. Years, decades. A generation. An age of heroes withers as the great men die. Kin, or honorbound friends, take up the mantle. Swear to uphold that which their founder fought for. They do so, to a lesser degree, as they had not the mettle to be a paragon in their own right. A generation passes again. People forget the strife. The slaughter. The pain. Another kin, this one having suffered not at all and merely heard stories of his family’s accomplishments, takes power for granted. Squanders it, for he is a lesser man, forged by naught but arrogance.
Here, or in two generations’ time, men falter and fade away. Hardship returns, for none remain to tame it. And the cycle begins anew.
Such is not true of the Shadowlands. Time means nothing to its denizens, but to mark new arrivals within its bounds. I have watched for several months now. I see the various forces of that realm vie for power as do mortals, and a cycle of their own form. Power shifts, but only suits to influence those beyond the land of the dead.
What good is ownership of a graveyard, when there is no more life left to fill it?
I have watched bands of ancestors retrieve the souls of their fallen. Seen Loa tend to the faithful, and torment the sacrilegious. Witnessed agents of the Light shield its children from horrors so ingrained among the Shadowlands. Souls of the living is the currency by which the dead mark power and influence, in turn used to bargain with the living and claim more souls.
Months of silence pierced only the scribbling of quill on parchment were now broken with the thunk of an opening door. Ceruszael continued on as if nothing had occurred, for nothing took place in his abode without his knowledge. His observatory was shielded and shrouded, with eyes all around when its master had need of such. Few knew of its location. None, of its purpose. The man who came to him now was a messenger dispatched from Addlewood. His tabard spoke as much, but disguises were far from the uncommon methods of infiltration. Ceruszael knew his allegiance for certain because the man’s will was no longer his own. Spirits circled the grounds around the tower, at the behest of he who bound them would learn all their was to know about visitors. Possessed, the messenger strode to the table at which Ceruszael stood and deposited a letter upon it. Pausing, the Knight reached for the envelope to scan its contents.
Kaidren Holt now leads by Adhelin’s grace.
Slowly, Ceruszael lifted his gaze to meet the messenger’s. Though no obvious act took place, all of a sudden awareness flooded the man’s features. He shuddered, panicked, stepping back from the table in a hurry as he looked all around. All that greeted him were black walls, a solitary table, and twin icy blue irises glowing in an oppressive darkness.
“C-C-Casttelan! I was disp-p-patched to you… what…. Where?”
I haven’t heard my own voice in two months.
“Everything w-was dark… cold… I c-c-couldn’t.”
The command echoed within the room, Ceruszael’s eerie reverberating tone demanding obedience. The messenger dropped to his knees, lip quivering, though remained quiet.
“Return to Kaidren Holt. Inform him my reclusion is at an end, and that any changes he intends to implement will be discussed with me first. If he disagrees or is displeased, he is free to speak with me.”
And just like that, Ceruszael looked back down to the parchment and continued writing. He did not exactly know how long it was before the messenger mustered the mental faculties to flee. Nor, in truth, did he care. Some small part of him questioned the interaction. Queried whether it was course, unfitting a man of his station, or had crossed moral boundaries. Asked how he was different from monsters condemned by the kingdom he supposedly served. Yet another part of him recognized that this used to be a dominant influence on his actions, not six months past. Solitude had peeled away a facade of humanity the more it was unused.
(( Tag Lineup: @householt @adhelin @kaideholt ))