79th of Summer, 515 AV
Mother, who is The Voice? He remembered asking as a wee child. This was so long ago - and despite Caesarion always forgetting things from way back then, he always remembered the expression of his dearly beloved mother as she first heard his question and attempted to formulate a reply. Something about that moment made him already know that, despite all that was said in the city and despite the beliefs harbored by nearly everyone in Ravok, his mother must have understood that the Voice was not so pure and exalted as the people imagined. Something about her was darker - grittier. But of course, she didn't explain it like that, his eternally youthful and eternally loving mother. She explained it like this . . . "Caesarion, the Voice . . . is our Lady." He repeated the words she began with, staring out into the forest he was trying to invade - this time - ahead of his group and trying to garner some more free food. But he couldn't think about the hunt. He couldn't see the wolf tracks he saw on the floor right before him, or the hissing he swore he heard behind the brush. Instead, he could only think about his past . . . about Ravok, and the Voice, and his mother, and Rhysol.
"She's the wife of Him . . . Rhysol, the Lord of Ravok. Our father and our savior. Our God." She said with such earnest fervor. He didn't understand it though. Our Father? He didn't see how Rhysol was his father when Mhaenies was his dad. The man surely was the one to offer his seed to his mother to infuse Caesarion with life. And surely his brother too. He didn't remember this magnificently adorned man raising him growing up. So, he brought that to his mother's attention, and she simply laughed. She explained to him that Rhysol wasn't his father in that sense, but his father in a different sense. Like a father above fathers. More important than his father and mother combined. That everything he had was owed to Rhysol, as the man who provided him with the healthy lifestyle he currently led - all the bread and the butter, all the olives and grapes, the perfectly cooled water that he led down his throat. Rhysol was - apparently - the master of everything, the ruler of Ravok, which was his territory and domain. And his mother even added that surely he was the ruler of the world, the Blessed meant to embrace all with open arms.
But they didn't see him that way in Syliras, when Caesarion left to go there. They didn't call him the Lord, the Father, the Blessed. His mother warned him that they might see him differently, and told Caesarion not to listen to them. But the first and only time he ever claimed Rhysol as such - as a Father - he was scorned and treated like dirt beneath the feet of the people he spoke to. He was fired from his job, and he lost all of the friends he'd made. He didn't understand. The Lord had always been so good to him in his time in Ravok. He remembered seeing his Voice in festivals and at the temple. So - why did the people in Syliras hate him so? Why did they call him the Defiler? He asked them that, and they claimed it was because he lied. Because he was the ultimate liar and that was just what the people of Ravok fell for. They explained what he did to the world - everything that the people of Syliras knew of the Valterrian, of Sylir, and of the 'Defiler' that was behind it all. This created a conflict within him that would last for years, one that continued on even now.
Openly, he did not follow Rhysol or the Voice any longer. Even in his conversations with himself - his introspective sessions - he claimed to disown the creature. And yet there was still the looming question in his heart. He didn't understand why he felt so connected to this creature, why he dreamed of him every single night. Why he whispered his name when the moon rose and his eyes set to sleep. He didn't understand the infatuation. A part of him wondered if he was blessed or cursed by this entity, to always repeat his name and always follow his footsteps. A part of him wondered if he was destined to intertwine with this creature. He did not ever know. It made him angry - and it made him fear. Fear what all of this would do to all of the beliefs he'd come to foster for so long, or claimed to have fostered, even despite the fact that he didn't ever quite understand just who he really believed in.
Right now, as the battle waged in his mind, a battle waged in reality. He held his sword against a wolf that had tried to corner him, with his hand forward to release Res and obliterate the wolf where it stood. He thought about it deeply and he questioned something: in moments like these, where his body was consumed with bloodlust, who did his heart align with? Rhysol - the 'Defiler', the Father of Evil, or Priskil, who apparently stood over hope? Were his impulses not dark-minded and evil? Would Priskil and her faithful consider them as such?
Why did he loathe Rhysol so much? Because of a perspective that was addressed to him by people that were his sworn enemies? People who hadn't ever lived in Ravok, who understood nothing about Caesarion's culture or the place which he belonged to, which was in truth protected and loved by their Father? Why had he gone years not questioning his malice? When had he let others determine what he believed in, and place 'Defiler' on the entity that heralded his very birth? He needed to think about it more . . . to consider, just honestly, who Rhysol was to him, who Ravok was to him, and who Caesarion was to them. If he never got this closure, he would never advance in his mental maturity.
His Res focused into a blast of wind, smashing hard against the wolf before being followed by a Res transmutation within the blast. The result was an outward spiral of sorts that would outright crush the creature's bones, with Caesarion moving in to finish it off. He'd become a lot better at air Reimancy in the past few months - to be honest, he sort of enjoyed it more than fire. But - that was a thought not well placed when trying to be introspective. Right. "Shit," he cursed. He never understood petching religion.
Mother, who is The Voice? He remembered asking as a wee child. This was so long ago - and despite Caesarion always forgetting things from way back then, he always remembered the expression of his dearly beloved mother as she first heard his question and attempted to formulate a reply. Something about that moment made him already know that, despite all that was said in the city and despite the beliefs harbored by nearly everyone in Ravok, his mother must have understood that the Voice was not so pure and exalted as the people imagined. Something about her was darker - grittier. But of course, she didn't explain it like that, his eternally youthful and eternally loving mother. She explained it like this . . . "Caesarion, the Voice . . . is our Lady." He repeated the words she began with, staring out into the forest he was trying to invade - this time - ahead of his group and trying to garner some more free food. But he couldn't think about the hunt. He couldn't see the wolf tracks he saw on the floor right before him, or the hissing he swore he heard behind the brush. Instead, he could only think about his past . . . about Ravok, and the Voice, and his mother, and Rhysol.
"She's the wife of Him . . . Rhysol, the Lord of Ravok. Our father and our savior. Our God." She said with such earnest fervor. He didn't understand it though. Our Father? He didn't see how Rhysol was his father when Mhaenies was his dad. The man surely was the one to offer his seed to his mother to infuse Caesarion with life. And surely his brother too. He didn't remember this magnificently adorned man raising him growing up. So, he brought that to his mother's attention, and she simply laughed. She explained to him that Rhysol wasn't his father in that sense, but his father in a different sense. Like a father above fathers. More important than his father and mother combined. That everything he had was owed to Rhysol, as the man who provided him with the healthy lifestyle he currently led - all the bread and the butter, all the olives and grapes, the perfectly cooled water that he led down his throat. Rhysol was - apparently - the master of everything, the ruler of Ravok, which was his territory and domain. And his mother even added that surely he was the ruler of the world, the Blessed meant to embrace all with open arms.
But they didn't see him that way in Syliras, when Caesarion left to go there. They didn't call him the Lord, the Father, the Blessed. His mother warned him that they might see him differently, and told Caesarion not to listen to them. But the first and only time he ever claimed Rhysol as such - as a Father - he was scorned and treated like dirt beneath the feet of the people he spoke to. He was fired from his job, and he lost all of the friends he'd made. He didn't understand. The Lord had always been so good to him in his time in Ravok. He remembered seeing his Voice in festivals and at the temple. So - why did the people in Syliras hate him so? Why did they call him the Defiler? He asked them that, and they claimed it was because he lied. Because he was the ultimate liar and that was just what the people of Ravok fell for. They explained what he did to the world - everything that the people of Syliras knew of the Valterrian, of Sylir, and of the 'Defiler' that was behind it all. This created a conflict within him that would last for years, one that continued on even now.
Openly, he did not follow Rhysol or the Voice any longer. Even in his conversations with himself - his introspective sessions - he claimed to disown the creature. And yet there was still the looming question in his heart. He didn't understand why he felt so connected to this creature, why he dreamed of him every single night. Why he whispered his name when the moon rose and his eyes set to sleep. He didn't understand the infatuation. A part of him wondered if he was blessed or cursed by this entity, to always repeat his name and always follow his footsteps. A part of him wondered if he was destined to intertwine with this creature. He did not ever know. It made him angry - and it made him fear. Fear what all of this would do to all of the beliefs he'd come to foster for so long, or claimed to have fostered, even despite the fact that he didn't ever quite understand just who he really believed in.
Right now, as the battle waged in his mind, a battle waged in reality. He held his sword against a wolf that had tried to corner him, with his hand forward to release Res and obliterate the wolf where it stood. He thought about it deeply and he questioned something: in moments like these, where his body was consumed with bloodlust, who did his heart align with? Rhysol - the 'Defiler', the Father of Evil, or Priskil, who apparently stood over hope? Were his impulses not dark-minded and evil? Would Priskil and her faithful consider them as such?
Why did he loathe Rhysol so much? Because of a perspective that was addressed to him by people that were his sworn enemies? People who hadn't ever lived in Ravok, who understood nothing about Caesarion's culture or the place which he belonged to, which was in truth protected and loved by their Father? Why had he gone years not questioning his malice? When had he let others determine what he believed in, and place 'Defiler' on the entity that heralded his very birth? He needed to think about it more . . . to consider, just honestly, who Rhysol was to him, who Ravok was to him, and who Caesarion was to them. If he never got this closure, he would never advance in his mental maturity.
His Res focused into a blast of wind, smashing hard against the wolf before being followed by a Res transmutation within the blast. The result was an outward spiral of sorts that would outright crush the creature's bones, with Caesarion moving in to finish it off. He'd become a lot better at air Reimancy in the past few months - to be honest, he sort of enjoyed it more than fire. But - that was a thought not well placed when trying to be introspective. Right. "Shit," he cursed. He never understood petching religion.
