37th of Ymiden, Arc 718
Dear Doran,
I've been thinking a lot about you - and us - since we last spoke with one another. While I have learned firsthand of the changes that have occurred within and around my body, I believe fully that whilst the door to my humanity closes, more doors have begun to open. I want to begin, perhaps to your sorrow or dismay, to make a case for us . . . despite all that I've lost of myself, and all the fear you regard me with. Though these words cannot be transcribed in one letter alone, I want you to know of my intentions to better myself to that of a true man, worthy of your pride, and ours mutually.
I sit here now, in Viden, pondering upon my life. All the things I surrendered, the people I lost, and my reasons for losing them. I don't want things to be the same with you. I believe... that things can be better. We can -- we will -- grow, and symbiotically come to understand one another in the ways we've both craved. I love you, Doran. I'm sorry for my dark gifts, and my subtleties, and even my lies. I know I have made many mistakes. But here, in this fortress of ice, I seek to mend them. I promise I will.
With Unyielding Affection,
Alistair Venora
As his pen and quill made its final stroke, he placed the jet object back into its inkwell, rising steadily from his chair. What collection of knowledge would he pursue this trial? What resolution to some... meager, distant destiny would he seek out? He was uncertain, but, since he had come to Viden, the mage had been incredibly resolved. He wanted to... move forward with his life. Since he had lost Venora, everything had stagnated. He'd been stuck in a rut of self-loathing and uncertain wandering, blanketed in the insecure nature of a great man now fallen.
Alistair wanted to change that, and with knowledge, he could. He left his room, and ventured into the city, seeking out the greatest quantity within: truth.
He sought out libraries, big and small, wishing to know of things untold in other lands. Before him, upon a bookshelf in a place far from inconspicuous, he found a volume that he'd been longing to view since he'd first begun to read on the history of his people and their culture. The book was titled, "The Lost History of Sheor, Vol. I, by William Dudley of Welles." Alistair drew the bound exterior of the book sleekly with careful, cautious fingers, drawing the object onto one of the wooden tables meant for study. It seemed, in Viden, that all the institutions existed to promote one thing, above wellbeing: knowledge.
To that end, all accommodations were focused on the expanding of that one thing, and he and the people around him cradled such wisdom with a passionate intensity unknown even to Uthaldrians. Surrounded by the well lit room of braziers and immaculate flooring, he opened the leather-bound book, and glanced upon the well-embroidered index that reminded him of all the regal nature of the noble grimoire he'd read as a child.
Strangely, despite his bone-colored hands and spiraling eyes, he found that few looked to him with revilement. Most peered only through curiosity, examining from afar his mortal alterations, the mutations his spark had left upon his flesh. Alistair did not mind the curious glances, and allowed himself to be observed, much as the contents of these books. He himself ventured, regardless, into the first volume of the lost history of his people . . . and was delighted by the grandiose, detailed explanations of the land's lost architecture and language.
For all the long moment that he stared, and quietly read, he had lost his surroundings. Alistair was delighted, and in a way, vulnerable.
Dear Doran,
I've been thinking a lot about you - and us - since we last spoke with one another. While I have learned firsthand of the changes that have occurred within and around my body, I believe fully that whilst the door to my humanity closes, more doors have begun to open. I want to begin, perhaps to your sorrow or dismay, to make a case for us . . . despite all that I've lost of myself, and all the fear you regard me with. Though these words cannot be transcribed in one letter alone, I want you to know of my intentions to better myself to that of a true man, worthy of your pride, and ours mutually.
I sit here now, in Viden, pondering upon my life. All the things I surrendered, the people I lost, and my reasons for losing them. I don't want things to be the same with you. I believe... that things can be better. We can -- we will -- grow, and symbiotically come to understand one another in the ways we've both craved. I love you, Doran. I'm sorry for my dark gifts, and my subtleties, and even my lies. I know I have made many mistakes. But here, in this fortress of ice, I seek to mend them. I promise I will.
With Unyielding Affection,
Alistair Venora
As his pen and quill made its final stroke, he placed the jet object back into its inkwell, rising steadily from his chair. What collection of knowledge would he pursue this trial? What resolution to some... meager, distant destiny would he seek out? He was uncertain, but, since he had come to Viden, the mage had been incredibly resolved. He wanted to... move forward with his life. Since he had lost Venora, everything had stagnated. He'd been stuck in a rut of self-loathing and uncertain wandering, blanketed in the insecure nature of a great man now fallen.
Alistair wanted to change that, and with knowledge, he could. He left his room, and ventured into the city, seeking out the greatest quantity within: truth.
He sought out libraries, big and small, wishing to know of things untold in other lands. Before him, upon a bookshelf in a place far from inconspicuous, he found a volume that he'd been longing to view since he'd first begun to read on the history of his people and their culture. The book was titled, "The Lost History of Sheor, Vol. I, by William Dudley of Welles." Alistair drew the bound exterior of the book sleekly with careful, cautious fingers, drawing the object onto one of the wooden tables meant for study. It seemed, in Viden, that all the institutions existed to promote one thing, above wellbeing: knowledge.
To that end, all accommodations were focused on the expanding of that one thing, and he and the people around him cradled such wisdom with a passionate intensity unknown even to Uthaldrians. Surrounded by the well lit room of braziers and immaculate flooring, he opened the leather-bound book, and glanced upon the well-embroidered index that reminded him of all the regal nature of the noble grimoire he'd read as a child.
Strangely, despite his bone-colored hands and spiraling eyes, he found that few looked to him with revilement. Most peered only through curiosity, examining from afar his mortal alterations, the mutations his spark had left upon his flesh. Alistair did not mind the curious glances, and allowed himself to be observed, much as the contents of these books. He himself ventured, regardless, into the first volume of the lost history of his people . . . and was delighted by the grandiose, detailed explanations of the land's lost architecture and language.
For all the long moment that he stared, and quietly read, he had lost his surroundings. Alistair was delighted, and in a way, vulnerable.
