Post by Nate on Oct 17, 2011 11:11:34 GMT -8
Noson sits on a park bench in one of the noisiest parts of Seattle. He hates this human form with a passion that surpasses words. Everything seemed further away, indistinct, as if wrapped in cotton. Even the heartbeat of the city was barely perceivable, normally vibrant under Noson's bare feet. The noises ran into each other, becoming nothing more than a wall of sound to Noson's human ear.
There are times when a person needs to put away the outside world, and pay attention to the memories. So Noson mentally walked the dark corridors within his mind. He remembered a great garou. He remembered her soft whispers, calming a cub who had lost everything. He remembered her loving embrace, soft as fallen leaves and as warm as a summer sun. He remembered every story she told, her audience captured by her deftly woven tales. Noson was still inspired by her howls of rage as she defended those same children with tooth and fang. But Noson was not that youth cared for, was not the one who was comforted in the dark of the night. Twisted-Tales gave that to another bone-gnawer, who needed it more desperately then Noson did.
But she was no longer. She was murdered. Twisted-Tales was caught up in a plot that should have had nothing to do with her, and she payed with her life. There is one grace to be found in death. You never have to see the youth you spent so much time polishing and nurturing turn her back on those teachings. You never have to bear another wound to your heart.
Those are the responsibilities of the living. To carry the suffering so that the great fallen can find rest.
Only those you allow near can cut you the deepest.
There are times when a person needs to put away the outside world, and pay attention to the memories. So Noson mentally walked the dark corridors within his mind. He remembered a great garou. He remembered her soft whispers, calming a cub who had lost everything. He remembered her loving embrace, soft as fallen leaves and as warm as a summer sun. He remembered every story she told, her audience captured by her deftly woven tales. Noson was still inspired by her howls of rage as she defended those same children with tooth and fang. But Noson was not that youth cared for, was not the one who was comforted in the dark of the night. Twisted-Tales gave that to another bone-gnawer, who needed it more desperately then Noson did.
But she was no longer. She was murdered. Twisted-Tales was caught up in a plot that should have had nothing to do with her, and she payed with her life. There is one grace to be found in death. You never have to see the youth you spent so much time polishing and nurturing turn her back on those teachings. You never have to bear another wound to your heart.
Those are the responsibilities of the living. To carry the suffering so that the great fallen can find rest.
Only those you allow near can cut you the deepest.