Ancient Obelisk II Jurnal · General

Entangled And Suffocated

The wild spirit of the Blackmire remains untamed.

Winding roots entangle us, twist around all efforts of our kin. Everything fades into the sounds of the night, a symphony of sweet and somber melodies.

We drown in them like bugs in the blackwater bog, dragged below by the vines. Such unbound energy, shining bright like the stars.

In These Windswept Summits

We sit among the crags and tips of daggers, hallowed by pure snow. To seek understanding, to reclaim the unity our kind lost in the fog.

What a wide and whistling land. What a quiet echo, helpless and shattered. Our minds are frozen in place, unmovable, unreachable by reason or compassion. We are split like valleys, lined by ivory cliffs that pierce our sides, contort our beings, and force our hands.

Some of us will rise. Some of us will stay. The eldest will be pure, the youngest lost and melted into new shapes.

We are no longer one. We are twin flames dancing to different melodies.

We Won't Share Our Breath With You

Climb upon the highest mountain and peer over the snow-blessed rim. Gaze into the swirling white, into the spiraling void. Just across the horizon, illuminated by the rising sun's light, is our land — and our gate to the stars, now barred.

Hear this: We aim to ascend, to rise, to flee — to leave the rotting lands below, corrupted by the spreading roots and blossoms of a familiar seed.

We yearn to return to the celestial light and purity of our cosmic blood.

Anything — or anyone — untamed, impure, or foolish must remain, even our youngest flames. Our doors are locked to you.

Do not pry them open.

Old Wounds Reopen

We stepped foot in humanity's Night Sanctum, crossed its threshold with glee and ease, shared our knowledge and voices.

Yet, as the brutish Drak built their temples on broken bones, their offerings held little interest to us, so we averted our gaze.

A farce, a failure, a fated misstep — for the creatures saw in this a challenge, and favor to be won in battle. When they attacked humanity for our attention, we recoiled... and vowed to never pick a side again, even as the Shroud emerged.

Ones We Carved Ourselves

Two bloods laid siege to these lands.

One was cold and violet as a yearfall's plum, encased in emerald leaves like scales. The other red and warm as a song shared by the fireside.

A forsaken clash, brought forth by our favoritism of fire. When we lifted humanity, we lowered all else... trampled a seed that thought us to be its sun, its god. But the seed grew in silence and hate, and where one purple petal fell, its roots took hold.

And They May Never Heal

Manathor is gone. Faded, somewhere at world's end... moments before the final reckoning.

The fleeting, the wild brutes, the cursed, the bloodthirsty. The wise, both the embraced, and the lost...

In the end, it did not matter who or what you were — what we were.

All were swallowed. And all will be gone.

A dark void to take in all light; to blacken the skies... the shadows fall on us the same.

And it always will.

Over, and over, and over... unless we strike at the root.