SteveJones313

I have always been impetuous, stubborn simply out of arrogant spite. To my shame, I cannot claim it to have been a trait that died in my adolescence; it has always been as much a part of me as my lungs or my heart; it has always been true that my mouth runs faster than my feet. As you can imagine, this has landed me in trouble on countless occasions. A disgruntled bar patron, a jealous boyfriend, a law-loving officer – a lot of bruises and blackeyes, pretty much all deserved. I remember the day I've regretted all this time; the crime that brings me to you. Thank you for granting me audience. It's so damn good to be able to be honest for just this moment. I wish I had known of your magic long ago, but I suppose I don't even deserve this reprieve. I suppose you already know of Verital, Goddess of Truth? Well she was my deity at birth. Born under her star in the fourteenth month of the year. I thought she would always have my back. I remember my dad telling me "Callous, gods are not

Magic has distinct aromas. The fresh vibrant scent like freshly cut grass as healing winds bless one's wounds. A sharp, distinct acidic shock like bitter lemons when creatures are summoned into being. Then there is the sickening fowl stench of death. You may think you know it, but unless you have witnessed the curse, you know not of its vile smell. It drenches every pore of your skin with a vomitous bile that even divine tears could never wash out. Even your tears are polluted with the toxic waste of the curse as they fall from stinging bloodshot eyes. Yannis. Lazarus. Taven. Harvarous. Their oozing, decaying corpses lay rotting at my feet, their blood tainted to an odorous, viscus, grey substance that stained the ground beneath them; their eyes melted into black, rotten piles of gelatinous slag. The liquified skin gently flowed like a dead river, collecting at my feet. Yet the greatest offence to my senses was the sound of laughter. Grating, high-pitched, wretched cackling. The mage –

Set sail to that sunset horizon Embrace the tomorrow dream; That night can fall on my yesterday, And dawn can break on my new today

How vast the ignorance of man is, unmasked and revealed by beauty’s own presence. For give a man a diamond, gifted not sold. Say, take it – this is yours. Ask no price, but their awe and appreciation. And man, with doubt and vanity will say “this thing is but a broken rock.” This vanity of man sees not its gleam nor shine, but the style of cut, For love is less its worth than its form be. What ignorance hath man that he doth care more for one’s shell than that which resides within them. In burning sands of desert plains, would men find water safe to drink, If its flavour be fowl, a fool would spit life back upon the sands of death, And with such ire bellow “I cannot drink this; its taste is fowl to me.” How precious is the gift of life and love. And yet, man cares little for true beauty and only for its form. Coins scarred and bent are tossed so fools may fawn o’er just one perfect golden penny. And love is lost in petty pursuits of fleshed perfection. Love’s beauty is its grace. A