Srcamlbed

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This is not for you.
Posts: 153
Joined: Thu Nov 24, 2016 10:22 pm
Location: Playing dressup with newbies

Srcamlbed

Post by This is not for you. » Sat Apr 07, 2018 4:06 am

Today I woke up as Sybil Aseph. I do not know who this person is or why I am them. My body rocks with the slow coaxing of the waves beneath me as my ship sails in from the trackless sea to take port in the city of Cordor. I am unfamiliar with my own appendages, and it takes some doing to re-familiarize thoughts with my toes. A sailor-- his name is Daveth, interrupts my physio-therapy with an abrupt jostling. He smells of his grog and oranges. While I can't see his mouth I imagine his teeth are pale yellow like his beer.

Quiet business conducts on the docks, done with purpose and finality as ship hands ferry goods too and from ships. I join the line of cargo and shuffle in a half conscious daze down the rickety steps of the gangplank and boardwalk. My name is Sybil Aseph. I don't know why it doesn't taste quite right in my mouth and a nagging pesters the rear of my mind with suspicion.

I meet voices that become familiar. Halfdan's voice is rich and light, with particular letters mangled and his vowels deep. He often speaks much too loud. I can always hear him talking, even from fifty paces away. Horst is his foil. When he speaks it is with soft mannerisms and mild cadence. He walks like a ghost, leaving little evidence of his existence where he travels. They say my name with a unique cheeriness lifting their voices.

A gnawing hunger in my heart demands satisfaction; akin to a displeased divinity making vague demands of me, I try different means to please. I get a job, I count numbers, I file papers with my numbers, I push documents. I supervise chaos to self-sustaining and fruitful ends. But my heart remains hungry. I support the arts (though I cannot see them), I give to charity, I speak my mind. But even still. My heart growls in dissatisfied hunger. My pysche craves something, and that something taunts me like the forgotten lyrics to a favorite song.

Sometimes, I try to use my wand. Carved of white birch wood and aged with by a life lived, the sharp point remains unseemly lethal. I forget where I got it but it knows me and I know it as well as I know the voices of my friends and the unique ways they walk. I place my magician's baton to the soft fleshy side of my skull and effortlessly, a sharp pang drives through my head.




Today I woke up as someone else. A sandstone staircase climbs upwards above me as I lie slumped in the stair's well.

Everything hurts and I want to go back to sleep. Yet still my feet find purpose, possessed by this aching need in my heart. I need to prepare the alchemical solutions for the experiments today. At the thought, I find myself standing at a familiar work station. While I cannot see my hands work in memory a task they've labored through before. The Cariff has a quiet and tense voice, tight with guilt and paranoia. If he looked like his voice he would look gaunt, narrow, greasy and laden in expensive finery's belonging to a station that is not his.

I am told something that shakes a golden carrot 'afore my wanting heart. A wand holster is pressed into my hand.

I ̀ǹe̡ed ͞to͟ leav̢e.͡

Meaning, purpose, answers are taunted on the tip of my tongue. I feel the world rocking beneath my feet as the world threatens my grasp on my prize- I need to lea--



I woke up today as Sybil Aseph.
Sydney Harrow (Disguised) wrote: You can chop with almost anything, with the right attitude.
Varania Sylanna wrote: Tell: Why is my alignment constantly tested by idiots.

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