Topic: Rain

Battlepoet

Date: 2011-03-02 14:40 EST
When it rains in the cold and the world is hushed, or that part of it subject to the damp miseries of chill and misty rains, and the most sensible of people (which includes many also deemed senseless save for their drive to remain dry or well fed) remain indoors to dream of other, more comfortable moments of the season there is nothing special or fantastic that takes place in these banal stretches of time save perhaps that life continues apace despite the best efforts of some. There are no fey magics that run riot in the solitude of the weather nor hidden mysteries emergent simply for the sake of the moment itself, though there are some who choose such times for the very character it lends.

When it rains in the cold and the world is hushed, it is nothing more than cheerless and bleak, to be endured by some, cheered by others and used as all time is. It is ambiance and little more.

Ambiance and magic are things of perspective, however, and such things as banality and despair are thereby merely conveyed and not caused; wonder and hope find root in the mud and and frost as easily those aforementioned counterparts might bloom under a spring morn. Nevertheless, visits to the dead to mourn seem best housed in such prosaic settings; goodbyes and hearty laments are more the province of sunshine and summer evenings.

Amadan, wicked and absurd, generally undefined and ephemerally uncharacterized, picked his way through the cemetery - a cemetery, some cemetery, a place where things dead were laid to rest and largely forgotten as those things that could bear memory became worn and faded and ultimately ceased to exist in their own right. He strode purposefully one moment, paused, fluttered aimlessly the next. Indecisive, peering hesitantly at a stone, muttering to himself. Dodging aside and darting away to halt abruptly and loom solemnly over an unmarked, crumbling stone that to all appearances had been left unearthed by digging and filling and digging and filling and the endless re-purposing of mud and flesh.

There was nothing in particular to visit; time passes and he laughs where the world can see and when he flits away from the warm-lighted sills of citadels and taverns, common houses and campfires through these myriad worlds, traversing dark places without fear save the creeping solitude that is Time; time that heals by slowly killing all that slip into its inexorable wake and become lost and empty memories revisited only on rare occasion.

Mad, lost, hungry, ineffable, he spent some time there - hours, years, eons; for some time is merely ambiance, or magic, or a spatial relation, and has its own perspective in each context. When the sun came and the rain ceased, he was there no more, his scare-crow shadow done lurking aimlessly and mindlessly among the buried pasts and lost dreams of ages never to rekindle; hopefully, instead, lurking in some transitory shadow to a place of brighter dreams that will some day die as well, and be reminisced as well in the cold and rain of a cemetery.