Enter Friedrich the Idiot, rudely late and apparently heavily intoxicated, chortling and humming a drunkard's tone. he is a nord student of arcane philosophy and a famed skald in his native province and just returned from a local tarven, barely in time to attend of the lecture of Seht, the greatest master of mysteries of the east, along with other students of the order of psijiic.
The master is holding aloft an odd orb of uncertain make, in the middle of the circle of his students, and he spoke..
''What, eager and expectant ye students and seekers of the mystery of stars,
Always retain in thy inmost heart, a query most relevant and pressing in mortals' fate.
For from truth, and light and destiny, death's solemn veil all mortal prying eys bars,
The answer to Why? Why? Why is it? T'is ever life and philosophy's freight.''
.....
''And lo, what rests in my grip, a mystery of yore,
Ti's an orb, but not only an orb, for made of naught but unknowns,
now begs ye to solve, to the increment of the universe's lore.''
And then immediately know those devoted scholars of the worldly and outworldly knowledge, that they must delve in the silent sea made of the tears of the stars, to see the tumultous deluge of time as but tempests in a cup, and
rise and fall of the states and empires of mortals and gods as but the wafting and wandering of wisps of mist. An ennervating and sorrow-bearing spell of reflection and finality has overstridden the congregation as if all are drifitng and drowning in lament for the eternal wheel of birth and death that leaves behind its path nothing but tears. But then an exclamation, frivolous and bold, has broken the silence of the congregation.
''A ball! Aye, I know it, t'is but a ball!''
Thus addresses Seht the arch-foe of his mute congregation of seekers of sorrow in ashen fire subdued. That for all his work to shed light upon mortals grave destiny, must have been interrupted by anything but an idiot.
'' And in the name of triune mysteries that govern the acts of my siblings and I, by all that reason and faith has maintained in the great wheel of Aurbis, philosopher of Man, but hark me this;
tis orb in my hand is not but an object of sight,
what is concealed, unsealed, then will truth come to light.
If thou must act and speak like a fool.
then at least serve for us amusement's tool.''
but still exclaims the idiot nord, for he is much too made proud and brave by wine, that for all his cares, he has no no time for an unexciting, of a rigid mystic, who is like a moth, only sings in the water of the past or caught in the web of the future.
''Fool? Then fool be I! And I shall be a fool that gives voice to shattering and dooming truth, ye idea-tinkerer of the devils,
For hark, there is this mystery of Mortal Man, it is wrought up in the spirit of wine, and by wine alone it is composed.
And if thou wouldst not be drunk and foolish as I, then should I waste no more drunken breath, off with ye and ye cult of weeping women and undertakers in rags!
Aye, ti's a ball I say; and a ball I claim.
What is in a ball? A ball is but a name!
Whatever nature has for its intention, and all its destined course,
Towards light, reason, harmony, and all music's source.
A ball is only a ball, though if t'is but in my hand,
It could be the universe in a grain of sand,
Eternities of God's work in but a gleam,
Or that, when Autumn went and Winter should come,
Sleeping, in a bough of dead cherry blossom
Of Spring, a dream within a butterfly's dream.
Though what secrect nations of stolen ideas, with what intricacies and intrigues, of the shifting of power, and of aeons embattled that began and ended in the shroud of tears and blood, and of feats and fates of many unknown great men that once walked the earth. Yet still that damned calling, a question begs another; and in level-minded observance, what has it brought, or taken, that is truly mine--- Why? Why? All my kingdom of solitude for a Why?
Wherefore asks why to those that bear sorrow's name-- if any that bears weight then it must be in the wine! ''
''Eldergleam, evergreen, for ever beam. Sing on, my womb-scarred pessimist muse. I am an agent of sorrow and doom; and I am death, the destroyer of worlds. Fear me not, nor only see me donned in cloth of sunlight. The colour of the night is the colour of Man, the primaeval fire's crown shall extinguish not; and know that death is only a veil of disguise for the immortal solar essense. I have been led by the gods of old, in ages long bygone, into the palace of LRKHAN. Away from day, away from Man. Yet I too know that the lament and the transient peace of death, and that dream of the butterfly's ghost in the shade of the every blossoming cherry blossom tree are but a fleeting illusion of the soul. Sleep though I shall, but not always, and one day I shall rise and see myself transformed--- not into a butterfly, but a red dragon. And all the continent of tears of ghosts of stars would once again return to their distant birth homes, and all sorrows they have borne would be answered through the fulfilment of the last prophecy of Man. And the earth, heavens and hells alike will sing in concord the name of my destiny---- Anti-christ, Saviour of Mankind.''
For all the sorrows of the blood and flesh must be repaid commeasurably with inebriation of wine.
To Saigyo, the man who cried for my sake.
The master is holding aloft an odd orb of uncertain make, in the middle of the circle of his students, and he spoke..
''What, eager and expectant ye students and seekers of the mystery of stars,
Always retain in thy inmost heart, a query most relevant and pressing in mortals' fate.
For from truth, and light and destiny, death's solemn veil all mortal prying eys bars,
The answer to Why? Why? Why is it? T'is ever life and philosophy's freight.''
.....
''And lo, what rests in my grip, a mystery of yore,
Ti's an orb, but not only an orb, for made of naught but unknowns,
now begs ye to solve, to the increment of the universe's lore.''
And then immediately know those devoted scholars of the worldly and outworldly knowledge, that they must delve in the silent sea made of the tears of the stars, to see the tumultous deluge of time as but tempests in a cup, and
rise and fall of the states and empires of mortals and gods as but the wafting and wandering of wisps of mist. An ennervating and sorrow-bearing spell of reflection and finality has overstridden the congregation as if all are drifitng and drowning in lament for the eternal wheel of birth and death that leaves behind its path nothing but tears. But then an exclamation, frivolous and bold, has broken the silence of the congregation.
''A ball! Aye, I know it, t'is but a ball!''
Thus addresses Seht the arch-foe of his mute congregation of seekers of sorrow in ashen fire subdued. That for all his work to shed light upon mortals grave destiny, must have been interrupted by anything but an idiot.
'' And in the name of triune mysteries that govern the acts of my siblings and I, by all that reason and faith has maintained in the great wheel of Aurbis, philosopher of Man, but hark me this;
tis orb in my hand is not but an object of sight,
what is concealed, unsealed, then will truth come to light.
If thou must act and speak like a fool.
then at least serve for us amusement's tool.''
but still exclaims the idiot nord, for he is much too made proud and brave by wine, that for all his cares, he has no no time for an unexciting, of a rigid mystic, who is like a moth, only sings in the water of the past or caught in the web of the future.
''Fool? Then fool be I! And I shall be a fool that gives voice to shattering and dooming truth, ye idea-tinkerer of the devils,
For hark, there is this mystery of Mortal Man, it is wrought up in the spirit of wine, and by wine alone it is composed.
And if thou wouldst not be drunk and foolish as I, then should I waste no more drunken breath, off with ye and ye cult of weeping women and undertakers in rags!
Aye, ti's a ball I say; and a ball I claim.
What is in a ball? A ball is but a name!
Whatever nature has for its intention, and all its destined course,
Towards light, reason, harmony, and all music's source.
A ball is only a ball, though if t'is but in my hand,
It could be the universe in a grain of sand,
Eternities of God's work in but a gleam,
Or that, when Autumn went and Winter should come,
Sleeping, in a bough of dead cherry blossom
Of Spring, a dream within a butterfly's dream.
Though what secrect nations of stolen ideas, with what intricacies and intrigues, of the shifting of power, and of aeons embattled that began and ended in the shroud of tears and blood, and of feats and fates of many unknown great men that once walked the earth. Yet still that damned calling, a question begs another; and in level-minded observance, what has it brought, or taken, that is truly mine--- Why? Why? All my kingdom of solitude for a Why?
Wherefore asks why to those that bear sorrow's name-- if any that bears weight then it must be in the wine! ''
''Eldergleam, evergreen, for ever beam. Sing on, my womb-scarred pessimist muse. I am an agent of sorrow and doom; and I am death, the destroyer of worlds. Fear me not, nor only see me donned in cloth of sunlight. The colour of the night is the colour of Man, the primaeval fire's crown shall extinguish not; and know that death is only a veil of disguise for the immortal solar essense. I have been led by the gods of old, in ages long bygone, into the palace of LRKHAN. Away from day, away from Man. Yet I too know that the lament and the transient peace of death, and that dream of the butterfly's ghost in the shade of the every blossoming cherry blossom tree are but a fleeting illusion of the soul. Sleep though I shall, but not always, and one day I shall rise and see myself transformed--- not into a butterfly, but a red dragon. And all the continent of tears of ghosts of stars would once again return to their distant birth homes, and all sorrows they have borne would be answered through the fulfilment of the last prophecy of Man. And the earth, heavens and hells alike will sing in concord the name of my destiny---- Anti-christ, Saviour of Mankind.''
For all the sorrows of the blood and flesh must be repaid commeasurably with inebriation of wine.
To Saigyo, the man who cried for my sake.
