Post by Loendal on Jan 29, 2010 1:21:48 GMT -5
What if I could have done this back home? What if could have brought back the dead from beyond? Could I have saved her? How far does it reach? If I dug up the elf I knew as a child, could I bring her back? It haunts me. I haven’t used it yet, it scares me too much. They’ve told me I can call back the dead now; either I’ve done enough or they’ve simply decided to let me.
Who says I got the right? I’m no god, I’m just another man. If I call one back, what about the rest of them? What makes one person worthy and another unworthy? Who am I to pick and choose? When I am alone at night, my mind tricks me. I think I’m hearing the voices of the dead; their whispers and pleading sneak into my mind like some poison I can’t cure. I could swear I heard her voice, too. If I am, it’s there to remind me of what I did. She’s out there somewhere. If everyone from every place all eventually make it to the homes of the gods, that would mean she’s out there too.
I also wonder about eternal justice. If I start calling people back, am I cheating again? Am I cutting off some enormous holy tribunal in which all the dead are deemed worthy or unworthy of final peace? Again I ask, who am I to interfere? Why the hell have they given me this so called gift if it’s doing nothing but driving my soul and mind into fits!? I’ve never thought much about what the druids and bards did for those around them. It seemed just another task to be done. Did they ever have the same problems? I can’t wrap my brain around it.
And another thing, there’s a certain darkness in me that wants to bring back my father, show him what I’ve become and then kill him again, only to repeat it. Just to deny him eternal peace and suffer the pain of death again and again. Maybe then he’d understand that his death was justified… It’s not a pleasant place I go to when those moods strike me. The old me creeps in and squats naked in the corner of my mind; beckoning me to come back. The twisted, vile and evil figure I see cringing there is appalling; he’s distorted and warped. The skin is pulled tight over a wiry frame; cast in a horrible brownish green light. His eyes are dark pools of the deepest black you can imagine; his teeth are sharp and drip venom, gleaming wickedly from a perverse grin. His hands are knotted into fists and end in sharp, dangerous nails of a terrible dark color. It’s a mockery of my humanity, a living thing that is little more then a shell housing hatred and wickedness. I hate to see it, but I cannot deny its existence. That was me once and now that me is diminished. I have become something greater then myself, yet the foundation of my world is that angry shell I created over those many years and he demands to be my guide once again. People depend upon me and him for their very lives… and now, their lives after they have passed on… How am I even fit to do this?
Who says I got the right? I’m no god, I’m just another man. If I call one back, what about the rest of them? What makes one person worthy and another unworthy? Who am I to pick and choose? When I am alone at night, my mind tricks me. I think I’m hearing the voices of the dead; their whispers and pleading sneak into my mind like some poison I can’t cure. I could swear I heard her voice, too. If I am, it’s there to remind me of what I did. She’s out there somewhere. If everyone from every place all eventually make it to the homes of the gods, that would mean she’s out there too.
I also wonder about eternal justice. If I start calling people back, am I cheating again? Am I cutting off some enormous holy tribunal in which all the dead are deemed worthy or unworthy of final peace? Again I ask, who am I to interfere? Why the hell have they given me this so called gift if it’s doing nothing but driving my soul and mind into fits!? I’ve never thought much about what the druids and bards did for those around them. It seemed just another task to be done. Did they ever have the same problems? I can’t wrap my brain around it.
And another thing, there’s a certain darkness in me that wants to bring back my father, show him what I’ve become and then kill him again, only to repeat it. Just to deny him eternal peace and suffer the pain of death again and again. Maybe then he’d understand that his death was justified… It’s not a pleasant place I go to when those moods strike me. The old me creeps in and squats naked in the corner of my mind; beckoning me to come back. The twisted, vile and evil figure I see cringing there is appalling; he’s distorted and warped. The skin is pulled tight over a wiry frame; cast in a horrible brownish green light. His eyes are dark pools of the deepest black you can imagine; his teeth are sharp and drip venom, gleaming wickedly from a perverse grin. His hands are knotted into fists and end in sharp, dangerous nails of a terrible dark color. It’s a mockery of my humanity, a living thing that is little more then a shell housing hatred and wickedness. I hate to see it, but I cannot deny its existence. That was me once and now that me is diminished. I have become something greater then myself, yet the foundation of my world is that angry shell I created over those many years and he demands to be my guide once again. People depend upon me and him for their very lives… and now, their lives after they have passed on… How am I even fit to do this?