Writings of the Blind

[Svv Mrk'ss]

_{The Language of the Sound Fey is lost to only lore keepers and the deepest archives of the Wind Libraries. It is a language that comes across as many vertical lines, strange, swirly punctuation marks and phonetic symbols that when read, can be heard and understood by all creatures, even of the non sentient kind. Being able to read the language, however, is a lost art, and no one save a member of Svv's line could read it. This is his personal writings.}

0I D'cuumIInts o' SVV SpIIn'

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It is hard to believe that there was once a fraction of my life when I held the accountability of the sun as my means of keeping time. Recently I have to document that the sun is no longer my time keeper, as it is more of a torture and annoyance upon the irises then anything, and my sense of what is now is only known by the counting of the days since that certain incident one-hundred and thirteen years ago.

Today is day forty-one thousand, three-hundred and five. It is spring.

I find that each passing day to be unnerving, feeling to have the same kind of impatience as any human. I suppose it is a similarity of beings that are doomed. I have found my old journal, of course, unable to read it, it is simply a means of expression. My sentences are dry, and unfulfilled, which is suited for a journal that can not be read. I am not a feeler of words, as writing is not my mistress, as I can not touch her as I touch my lover, or listen to her, or feel or embrace her like I do my fellow arpeggios, my carefully drawn harmonies, or a sense of vigor with tempo. Words are illusions, while music is true honesty. Again - fitting.

I have found Abaddon's Mouth three days ago, gaping, breathing, wanting. I felt its seducing beckoning from naught a country away, and I felt it a meeting long awaited. I still move a body that seems to possess a soul (or I would like to think) so I imagine the meeting to be successful, though understanding perhaps is another thing all together.

I do not know much of the nature of the Death, how they travel, or where they go when they desire to return to their homes. Do they eat, sleep? Are they fey made truly immortal, or has the psyche of our species simply made them so? Who knows, it is a thought I play with, and I can all ready tell that the festering nature of my curiosity won't allow me to be questioning of it for too long. If there a way to close this gate?

What is the purpose of a mouth if it does not speak? Is it worth closing?

I projected this idea to the Ice Queen. This, however is just an idea.

[Svv Mrk'ss]

0II D'cuumIInts o' SVV SpIIn'

---

Well! What a day it has been! I can not adequately write that the meeting with Death an amorous one, but what am I to say about Death and his givings?

I have learned many a thing about these Death Fey, and the first and most prevalent of my learnings is that Death was in fact alive. I suppose it isn't any discovery to note that any stray soul is readily eaten by these anti creatures, but to claim that they were once one of us is a fact that is only believed when heard first hand.

Heard, as in, spoken to a core of a being. A power I wish not to reflect on, it does have its uses when it comes and goes. It seems only triggered by my interest, though it does also have the backlash of leaving me damned near deaf for an undisputed amount of time.

The Ice Queen's song is calmer on the ears, perhaps I should simply keep my interests in the living, though I have to say, my death sentence was lengthened because of my impulsive interests, and random curiosities.

I am lucky, I dare think, to be alive.

With this knowledge, I will have to figure out a means to stop a second reckoning with the Death Fey. Perhaps there is a way to breathe life back into said monsters? In the mean time, let me ponder this lover of Death that has saved my life.

Lilian, I suppose I should be ready for thee.