The Rising Dark: Chapter One; Puff

I woke up elated to be seeing my old brother Azarain for the first time in many a year.  I had my doubts that I'd ever see the kid again, but he'd written me just a month ago agreeing to meet at the Festival of Lights in Sandtown.  In happier times, I would bring little Azarain to the Festival every summer, and we'd marvel at the dazzling light shows in the sky.  But that was years ago, and much has changed in the world, not to mention in our family.  Still, something inside me still thinks we can turn back the clock, and return things to how they once were…

My effervescent optimism faded as the hours passed and I grew deeper in my cups.  I'd drunken myself into a dark daze when a most unusual-looking cloaked visitor clambered through the inn bar. His heavy stomping jolted me back to my senses.  By the look of the light coming through the windows, I saw dusk was upon us, and decided it'd be as good a time as any to head to the town square and catch the night festivities leading up to the lights.  Besides, this visitor piqued my drunken interests, and I hadn't had an interesting conversation all day.  That's the thing about these inns in the free cities; nothing but merchants and they're endless squawking on their latest trades.

I got the door for my friend and walked over to the square with him.  The Festival of Lights has always been a popular event, and this year was no different.  Man, was that square was packed.  They call 'em the free cities, but there sure isn't much free space.  My companion had the brilliant idea of watching the festival play out from a rooftop on the square, so we headed up to church's belltower to look down on the crowd and its ruckus.

Laslo, as I came to learn his name was, didn't warm up to me quick, but before too long I had him talking.  I can be quite friendly when I'm drinking.  Anyways, I spilled enough of my troubles onto him, he was probably sick of my stories, poor guy.  And boy, did I get some stories out of him.  He didn't come right out and tell me anything, mind you, but I've been around these lands long and far enough to garner a bit more from a common tale than your average listener.  At least I like to think so, that is.  Because as crazy as it sounds, I'm fairly certain this hooded traveler told me he was from the isle of the monks, in so many words.  Didn't hurt that I'd been showing him the ways of the weedpipe, not sure the fellow had even smoked the green before.  Anyways, the time really flew by and we had a really swell time shooting the shark, swell enough to make me forget entirely about old Azarain blowing me off.  Of course, the swell times weren't the only thing helping me forget.

We were laughing at a poor chap trying to start a sing-along when an official-looking gentlemen quieted the crowd and announced that the lights would be set off in ten minutes.  I was glad to have someone to watch the lights with.  Laslo's excitement, having never seen the festival before, brought me back to the first time I brought Azarain, and the way he'd been giddy all day, and squealed in excitement at the first light.  I began to imagine how Laslo might react, when I sensed him tense up beside me.  I'd been pretty deep into my daydreams, or night-dreams as they were, and hadn't even noticed the darkness.

I looked out, but nothing came back.  In all my years, I've never experienced darkness quite like this. The sounds of screams rose to us, and when the night was turned to day, a scrum of goblins and demonic shells of men was revealed to us, attacking the festival crowd below.  We sprinted down the stairs of the belltower to fight off the rush of goblins.  As I took elk-form I saw him, sword slashing clean through the neck of a goblin.  Azarain turned to strike another, as Laslo and I fended off another pair.

A sound drowned out the screams, the sound of wind.  I hooved a goblin into the dirt as a strong gust emanated out of Loslo's outstretched hands.  In a blood-filled, fiery blur,  we fended off the pack until the darkness returned.  As the echo of a long-forgotten tongue clambered through my head, my eyes fell upon the only thing visible, a pious-looking man surrounded in a warm glow of light.  I was hypnotized by his aura, floating alone in a sea of nothingness, and seconds turned to days.  When the darkness lifted, the goblins and carcasses were gone. Laslo had placed a weakened Azarain upon my elk-back, and I shake him off as I return to my form.

We wandered over to the glowing man, where a few heros had fought off another gaggle of goblins.  The mystery of it all weighed heavily on my mind as we returned to the Rusty Dragon with the Head of the Guards.

The Rising Dark: Chapter One; Pog

Festival of Lights, 2345AUR

Howdy-hoody there! What a day, what a day.

It started all breezy sweet with a mid-day nap before festivities began. I recall entering the festival at the prime hour. I mean, I was right there in the center of it all with a fine spot by the fountain and not even too cramped to be shaded out! But just as Stu and I were settling in, everything went pitch dark. Now, I know what it’s like to be at sea, far away from the lights of a city in the middle of a black storm, but never have I seen such a dark darkness.

The hour struck and terrifying screams filled the sky. Moments later, the square lit up and there were bodies… So many falling bodies. Goblins were meddling in-between the human-folk and swarms of them where coming in from all directions. Brutal creatures, Goblins are. Stu and I turned around to face them, but by no means was it a fair fight!

The Rising Dark: Chapter One; Laslo Gall

I walk around the festival. I know the chances of me finding another monk is small. The square is filled with people drinking and playing games. I constantly worry that someone will notice my scales or teeth or eyes and make a scene. I haven’t been in a crowd this large in a long time. Not since my masters first took me to the port city to buy supplies. I was wearing a cloak then too. I wasn’t as nervous; I had my fellow monks with me. Now, I wonder if there is even one within a hundred miles. I’m not getting anywhere out here in the daylight. I’ll have better luck at night, when I can talk and not worry about being seen.  I’ll head back to the Rust Dragon and meditate till then. As I walk go to exist the square, a Halfling riding a raccoon skips past me. I guess I wont be the only strange creature here.

Within minutes I’m back in the inn. The lobby has a lively atmosphere. In the corner is a rather old looking elf. His energy is much calmer than the buzzing of the festival. Past the bar and into my room; I close the door and begin to meditate. I must reside myself to the truth: I may be the last monk I see.

The sound of the festival stirs me. Night has fallen. It’s only a matter of time until the ceremony starts. I should head to the square. The lobby is now empty save the bartender and the old elf. The elf is quite a bit more intoxicated now. His eyes are half open as he rests his head against the damp wooden table. My presence seems to stir him. Observing the darkness that has fallen outside, the elf jump up to his feet and makes for the door. Five steps in and he still hasn’t found his footing. Arriving at the door at the same time, I ask him if he is heading to the center. He answers yes and I suggest we walk together. I worry he wont make it on his own.

Blah blah blah… this elfs got a long life story. As we trot down the city street the elf, Puff, harps on about his son and their date to meet tonight. Most of it is family talk, things I can’t understand. In the middle of this speech he mentions his son is a dark elf. I’ve never seen a dark elf.

The square is much more filled than this afternoon. People point up to the sky with anticipation. Looking over the crowd is a large stone church. The empty bell tower will be a good vantage to watch the festival. I suggest it to the elf. He agrees and suggests we “toke the herbs”. I wonder what he means by “herb” and “toke”.

I like these “herbs”. He tells me he has studied the “Way of the Weed” for many centuries now. I inquire who his masters were and he replies “Mary Jane”. I tell him I must meet this Master Mary. He answers, “You already have”. It is a strange philosophy.

The crowd grows restless. The ceremony is set to begin any minute. Quite suddenly, what little light there was is gone. I ask the elf, with his better vision, if he can see. Perplexed, he admits he is blind as well. Shrieks come from bellow and the sound of falling bodies. Feeling for the ledge, I ready myself to jump into the square. If something is afoot I don’t with to be trapped in a tower watching. Puff yells for me to wait. I hear him stubbles in the dark. I think he attempted a spell but am not sure. No matter, the sky quickly sparks into sunlight. The ceremony has begun. The blinding white turns to red within seconds. Peasants and merchants alike fall at the swords of goblins and skeletons. Blood fills the streets. They are everywhere. I look over the edge. The fall would be damaging and put me right in the middle of a fight. I turn to Puff and without words we sprint down the staircase.

In front of the church, the battle wages. From the top of the stairs, Puff yells into the center of the square. There I see a black elf crossing swords against two goblins. I jump into the battle and throw my fists towards a sword-wielding skeleton. I must still be feeling the effects of the “herbs” and I miss both my throws. It’s been a long time since I’ve really trained. Perhaps I’m rusty. I look back to see my old elf friend mutter to himself. A wave of magic pulses out of him until, before my eyes he explodes into a giant stag!

From there the battle seemed to happen in fast motions, as if time was being pulled by magic or laziness. In a blur, I cast gust of wind. Goblins and skeletons are blown backwards. I attempt to rally the survivors to the church. In the chaos, I shoot a line of fire right past Puff and into a charging goblin. I quickly realize my mistake, I have given my nature away. I then jump down and kick the burnt goblin through the burning bush and into the skeleton behind him killing both. Puff joins his heavily wounded black elf son, shattering a skeleton warrior. Seeing the son struggle, I run over to help. In a slow-motions super emotional moment, I pick up the black elf and place him on his father-elk’s back so he may get him to safety. I can see the enemy army start to retreat. Guards have arrived from the west. The battle has turned in our favor. Just as this happens the field go black again. My dagger out and alert, I await the coming attack. It never comes.

Within seconds the field is bright again. This time the blinding white turns not to red but to brown. The dirt of the square is no longer covered with bodies. They have vanished. I look across and see a group of guards along with a heavily armored human and the Halfling from earlier. All but one guard goes after the retreating forces. The surviving crowd erupts in applause. I try to pull my hood back over my head but it is burn beyond repair. I look to the crowd and to my surprise their cheers do not turn to horror. The single guard left in the square quiets the crowd. He introduces him self as the sheriff. He addresses us as a group and asks for all of the “fighters” to meet him at his office tomorrow morning. His brief speech done, the crowd converges on us. Praises are thrown at us; the owner of the Rusty Dragon even offers us free board.

This acclaim is a sensation I have never felt. The warmth of the crowd is invigorating but I must not get wrapped up in it. The public eye is no place for a dragonborn. I need to be on my way.

Mugwumps.

These senators were too brilliant not to post.

Opening Right Up

Depression is an inherently selfish venture. At its crux is the notion “I disserve to be happier”. That sort of self-involved ranking of your state of mind is grossly misled. To paraphrase Pete Holmes, its counting snowflakes in a snow globe. The snow globe of a depression-skewed mind is never going to count enough snowflakes, its twisted to read deficiency. Depression is heat sensitive to discovering flaws and shortcomings and decay. It’s a self-perpetuating flow of bullshit, which if it were to ever truly escape would wither. But it feels like you’re trapped. And you’re aware of how your thinking has become flawed but every argument you make in moments of despair is perfectly reasonable. But you are dying every minute. You can’t ever reclaim the happiness you had. Things aren’t going well and who knows if they’ll get better. What is the point?

For the last month or so this has kind of been my wheelhouse. I wake up some mornings and a very articulate “What is the point?” is waiting to greet me.

I know how self-involved and petty this is. There are so many important things happening to people and our species and the world and if I truly felt hopeless I should just throw myself at a cause and try and heal someone else. That would be the martyr thing to do, that would be noble. Unfortunately, I don’t think this disease works this way, it doesn’t inspire. And I’m finally starting to think of it as a disease. I see how its symptoms come and go. I think I’ve always had it, its always been in me, but there are times when it swells up to Akira size and seems to consume my life.

Diseases need treatment and I haven’t delved into the treatment phase yet. I know that I should but that isn’t enough when you feel like you’re drowning. Tackling depression is scary, it forces you to confront a lot about yourself that you don’t like. It’s a hard choice to make when the other option is just saying, “fuck it, I’m done”. It’s much easier to lie down and die. Taking about suicide Chris Gethard said, “If you really think you’re strong enough to turn off every instinct telling you to be alive and jump off a bridge you’re probably also strong enough to keep living and push through it”. If you can do one you can do the other and luckily I’m still thinking logically enough to say that pushing through it is the better choice. This is the best “why” I’ve come up with so far.

I’m writing this because I leave tomorrow morning to see my family for two weeks and I’m really scared to talk to them about this. Growing up I heard constantly, “the most important thing is that you’re happy”. I didn’t grow up with religion and I was ingrained with a distrust of systems and organized thinking. “Be happy” is the one doctrine they gave me. How can I tell them I’ve failed in the one aspect they asked me to succeed? In my worst moments I think it would be easier for them if I just vanished. I know that’s untrue but like I said it’s a flow of bullshit.

I’m writing this as practice because I have a feeling I wont be able to hide these feeling for two weeks. I need to deal with this now so I know how to say it later. I’m also writing this because I’ve realized how hard it is for people to understand and to hear. I feel like I’ve been screaming, “I’m depressed!” for the last two weeks but still I find close friends who don’t know.  It seems things like this can’t be insinuated; it must be spoken about bluntly. That being said, there is a chance none of this will make sense. Issues of the mind aren’t solid things that can be drafted, they come out in metaphors, they are talked around and are not to be held down. If nothing else, taking this time to write and post has helped me feel a little more in control, more manageable.

I’ll be gone for a while, I hope to be smiling when I come back and I hope you’re smiling while I’m gone.

Jesse