This is another lore-piece by 'Ironed Maidens'.


WE ARE THE GENUINE
WE ARE THE STARRY HEART
FROM BENEATH WE TREMBLE AFOOT
AS THE ALTAR OF PADHOME IS BEFORE US
LET OUR SAVANT SMILES REOCCUR TO YOU IN YOUR DREAMS
LET NOT THE GOLD OF THE ASH-BLOT ASSUME YOU OR CARESS YOU
FOR HE IS A JOKER AND A TRADE OF HOLMES AND CRUEL PROPHECY AND LUST
NOW IS WHERE WE STAND
NOW IS WHERE WE BEGIN AGAIN
BESEECH YOUR LONG RUN AS A REIGN
BUT DO NOT OBSCURE YOUR VISION FROM US
FROM THE STARRY HEART AND THE COSMIC BEATING BRANCH
ACROSS THE PILLAGING SHORES AND WARRING STAGES YOU FOLLOW FOR US
BUT UNKNOWING AND IDLE IS OUR GUILE FROM THE WAILING WALLS AND DOOMED ARCS

What was once a shattered glass vase is now home to hundreds of isolated dreams. If one was to obscure them from a different angle, the dreams would become nightmares for each fellow, man or mer, has a dream. Becoming of a dream, or seeing as a dream, it is as useless as no dream at all.

What was once a volcanic mirror is now home to our last lives. If one was to obscure it from a latter entombment, the last lives would become subtle gestures for a warm palace deep within the mountains of ash and oak. Forgotten of a last life, or remembering as a last life, it is as horrifying as no life as of yet.

What was once a placid scar of indolent is now home to the last face-off of We. If one was to look outside the provisions of this time, the last face-off would be no different, for at last one would have reconcile. Fleeing from the last face-off, or racing for a last face-off, it is as diluting as the thought of life in the first place.

Can a bearing of foreclosure be any worse than an isolated change, or even any better? If you could take from a Guar its milk, yet the Guar would die, would you think any less if thirsty? If you could become rich from the success of a House, yet the House would perish without its gains that you took, would you care any less if poor? Then let the resolution sit in mandate, for in this scripture you can find reside if you were to look closely, but would you think any less and take a second glance if confident?

House Indoril will fall, and the tithing-stone of the ALMSIVI will be the last to go. In the Mourning Hold, the god-face of the city will recede into a mantle; but there will be a catch, an old friend. If multiplying into the sun were such a divine act, surly all mortal life would try. Though some may, they fall when almost there. The rest of us, we aim for the crested pearl of the Arena, and even then we fall short. But the rest of Us, we have soared beyond the gracious dips of the JILS, and to end it within ourselves we have drank from the fountain of the FRAMAK. With the falling of Indoril, we bare the falling of Veloth and his thoughts. The world is changing, uncoiling. And we must bear from it its teeth. The slaves have fallen silent amongst the cantons of circlets, and the breath from Oblivion is taken back. Do not deny our own fates. Come to the realization that you are but a glistening twinkle in a sea of liquid Love.

Bearing forth from the crater-womb is the descendant from which all mortal life is presumed. Like the piercing mandible of a Shalk, this insight grasps us all from time to time. What is our purpose to serve? Do we war over land for lack of a better justice, or do we genuinely need to make our battlements in the coldest regions of the highest mountains? Perhaps the severity of our handicap is that we can not see outside the straight line, yet two others like it follow closely behind. Perhaps the Dwemerii could sense this. For once they saw the gray clouds of the Velothi, they were subdued to relevance and deliverance from the aspiring chocking priests who bore wing-mouthed thoughts of their enfiladed sovereignty. Perhaps they did worship a god, but not a god. A provoking endogamy of star-gazed constructs. A FRMAK and a beetle. For within this frame they see the world as a still life painting, one who's oils bleed through to other layers of the canvas and meddle. Perhaps they hated this god with such an amping fortitude that they longed to be him. And perhaps, in the end, they got to float through the ashes of the momenta and mesopic interludes that are IS and IS NOT. Perhaps they touched the face of God...in our dreams somehow.

With no less refurbishing, these are the gears of concealment. Whether or not they are truth is up to the beholder.

Any comments at all?

How about yours?

I would, but I'm still in the process of figuring it all out. I thought posting it in the Lore section would get a little conversation going.