Perhaps we Sages are not immune to the chitter chatter and spreading of stories we do not know. As the washer women and the drunks go on of sights they have never seen and voices they have never heard. Perhaps it is built into our race, our blood, our very being to spread the stories of folk in every place far flung about the world that we enjoy for a moment to tell each other stories. Stories unseen in any tome or history recorded by the hands of our kind. Continue reading “A Sage’s journal entry [archive].”
Of the many things in the world to which one should be made aware, there are some, rare and half forgotten which should never fade from memory. They live and linger near and far from folk of every walk of life regardless of whose banner their land falls under. Only the Sages know for certain, but outside them it is almost lost to the noise of new importance. Until trials and tribulation come as can be seen in the land of Roves. Continue reading “The yellow fox and the Clúanaire [archived].”
Against our better judgment we had let you in to stay. Continue reading “The welcoming.”
There is a time for war to wage, to sow and reap to live. But overlooked in life is simple deep inside the dark.
More than a time for lovers and a chance to drink, to tell and hear of stories old and new and boasts of humble and otherwise.
I lay myself in darkness down to close my eyes and dream. The sounds of a waking world will fade and vanish to a place unknown.
And there I see behind closed eyes a world shut off from life. A world where understanding comes from stories of old times.
For only when one takes the time to hear what had once been, can one then learn of all that was and will once be again.
So much in life cannot be done or seen or made by mortal hands. But here I see the dead that dance in a way which others can’t. They dance and sing in their own way, to them they speak and show.
And here I lay to learn and dream, to hear of all that was. And in the background Gods whisper there, of worlds made and thrown away.
What misfortune comes when dawn will rise and I return to the world of noise.
There is so much more to know and hear from a world beyond the sight of waking eyes.
A sight contaminated by plotting words, which hates al that had been.
Perhaps it’s time to dream again and forget the waking poison.
A poison that will kill in time but never kill what truly was.
A storm waits in the wings for a shelter unprepared. It is but the whisper of winds which tell of its coming to those who never learned to listen. Continue reading “The flash, the thunder.”