Tesrin, Shunned

[ 80] Tesrin: *A bloodied parchment*
Tue Sep  2 11:30:55 2003
To: SHUNNED
*A trembling hand writes the words on the sheet, the lines of the letters
unnatural in their raggedness.  The writer was obviously either extremely
cold, or rigid with fear.  The raggedness seems to disappear as the writing
goes on, however.

--I write this now, under urge from a cloaked figure that has entered my
room.  He, she, it bids me scribe their words, that I may live.  I have no
choice but to oblige.  They have begun speaking, and I must pay heed to the
words.

A blooded history follows us, binds us together.  We are one in our ties,
our bonds of death and miasma.  Though the bonds be invisible, they are
rigid, unyielding, and we are irrevocably strung.  The shadows of darkness
loom, and hidden within lies myself, a willing ally, bound by blood.

The babe lies sleeping, nestled in its swaddle, safe from the predators that
stalk without.  The babe stirs, brought to life, a phoenix from its own
demise, to challenge the darkness that so comforts and soothes.  Long has
the babe hidden away, safe in the shining tower, yet the darkness awaits, it
penetrates, it subverts.  Cautionary, subtle, yet ever-present, it permeates
stone and mortar, to tickle the very soul.  No longer.  The child has
awoken, aware of its mistake.  Yet darkness is all about, and he is unable
to fend it off.  Hidden in the shadows, ever present, yet never there, we
await, we proceed.  The ripple of light will be swallowed by the wave of
dark.  There is no hope.

A cry echoes forth.  A shrill scream of a hunter, a bird.  They serve
unwittingly, their brutish might no match for the guiding wits behind.  A
vanguard force, a preemptive strike.  They throw back the child and his
toys, and we watch.  An amusing show, an indulgence.  No longer a necessity,
no.  The wave has enveloped them.  Their blood has parted, has passed the
wave by, leaving it untouched, unblemished.  Yet they remain, held in check,
bridled, harnessed.  They paw, they seethe, and are eager to be set loose.
Yet they can not win.  They lack the cunning, the unrivaled intellect of the
wave.  For the wave is eternal, the wisdom of eons, so they remain unawares.
But the shadow knows, the shadow watches, waits.  Soon, plans must come to
fruitation, the wave and shadows to meld.  Soon...

*At this point, the clear, fluid text comes to a sudden stop.  The lower
half of the parchment is splattered with dull brown spots, denoting dried
blood.  Apparently the writer of the sheet had met an unfortunate end before
the sentence could be completed.

*Scrawled beneath the unfinished sentence, written in the same blood, is a
single word, the strokes unnatural and unpracticed.  It reads:
T E S R I N

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