The Tales of Chyrán   
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Introduction. In the fourth chapter of Chyrán's poetical novella man meets his mortality and transitoriness. Be prepared, for dark clouds are brewing on the horizon, the sea is surging, wind tears down the rigging, and every single seaman's life is at stake. Engulfed by utter darkness and dire prospects of impending doom where can one find a glimpse of hope? Maybe it's right there, my friend, Chyrán seems to say, where you wouldn't expect it: in midst of the storm...


ye, so quiet the waters once had lain, as if they’d slumber through all of eternity. And yet steady, steady, since the days’ beginnings, ever, ever has rocked the sea. Back and forth, forth and back again: gently, smoothly, silently. It might appear that this is the way the Gods once created them, the way they meant them to be.

But the Wind, the Spirit, had been first, and then through the Wind emerged the Earth, to reflect on all that is the Wind – different in essence, as an element akin. And awakened, inspired by sá Avásh, the Very-First-of-All, and só Mód, the one that came after, arose the forces of the In-Between: the fervent, eager son, and the becalming, tranquil daughter, the Fire and the Water. And thus the four would begin to wage s’Okrói, the Everlasting War, as from the One many had sprung, and a single among many always wants more. Since then the Earth has raged against the Wind, and its desire became the lust inherent in só Efér, the Fire. While the Wind challenges all that is rigid, permanent and numb, he spurs on to change and to become, leave behind what once had been, sa Már is his weapon, Water is his means.

Man, the Cárpa’dosía says, is a player in the eternal struggle. Man, it says, is the Water’s child, ever on his way between Earth and Wind. It is written that in his breast a flame is burning hot and wild, but with the will to overcome its craving it was twinned.

Sailor! Heed those words of ancient elven lore, when you ponder over the mysteries of the sea. The waters might all look quiet, calm, but in the divine scheme laid out for us the storm is also meant to be.

I put the tome away.

The lamp hanging from the wall, my chest below the bunk, the f’oc’sle as whole – they rise, they fall, reflect what drives, incites, what pushes all, and thus with the sea I also rise, I fall. Steady, steady everything goes with the long heavy swell carrying the brig, up and down, up, and down again. Each movement seems more intense than the one that rocked the ship before, while in a corner sea boots, rags, buckets in their own way ride along, scraping rhythmically on the wooden floor.

Throughout the morning things have changed. Though only just a while ago everything was fine.

With the night’s final watch mine, the day had begun, but aside from the breaking morn’s welcoming chill, had proved uneventful: Sunrise found the ship lying perfectly still. Then the sails were reset: topsails, topgallants, royals, the stays, tier upon tier. Ha, I almost felt like a full-fledged buccaneer when a seaman’s cheeky parrot quipped: “Lazy ye bastards, rough’s the sea!” Heh, indeed he’d caught me while I stood idle, watching, chatting, sipping my tea...

Aye, a short while thereafter from the masthead the second mate reported land – right there, on the starboard bow. It seems strange that I recall that now, when the last trace of solid ground long, long ago has drifted away. As the hours went by greyness was taking over and hopes dwindled that good fortune had come for a longer stay.

All the while the sea had risen and fallen, as it always does, unassuming, secretly – no hint of real surge, retreat, not even a subtle, noticeable swell. From one horizon’s end towards the other reaching, waters upon waters quietly went up and down, ever busy in being what they were, self-absorbed, even from the skies ignored, like a giant sliver of everlasting blue: blessed, infinite, contented through and through.

Aye, so quiet the waters had lain, as if they’d slumber from dawn to dusk all through the day. And yet since the day’s beginning, ever, ever steadily, the wind has roamed the lands, the wind has rocked the sea. Back and forth, forth and back again: gently, smoothly, silently, the wind roams the lands and the wind rocks the sea.
But hours went by, and not a single further crag nor reef, least of all an isle disturbed the perfect solitude, no other brig, barque nor boat was to be seen. The few birds that crossed over from time to time seemed lost and desperate in search of something solid, something, anything green...

And then the clouds moved in. Rapidly, grey and sombre, eastward bound.

As they were racing above the ship, all hands set out and prepared the bracing – sail by sail, to brave the weather, and as best we could avoid the looming gale. However, the giant course sails soon were buckling, flogging, the upper sheets pressed hard against the masts and the captain commanded tauntingly: “Lifelines ready, enjoy it while it lasts!”

Chased by the building clouds the ship kept on ploughing, the wind was shifting, howling, soughing. Gusts were beating, biting, rising, rushing. A scary roaring shook the rigging.

“A-a-all hands ahoy! A-a-all men! Ahoy!”

But to the elemental force that hit the brig, man soon appeared nothing but a fragile toy.

“A-a-all hands ahoy! A-a-all men! Ahoy!”

The voice though that yelled was drowned out right as it spoke, almost muted by the suddenly tumultuous sea, the whipping wind, the violent clattering of the sails. The sea was already a-tumble, dark clouds lit up and rumbled, footsteps were thumping all over the deck, frightening banging sounds of shifting load reached us from deep down in the hold.

Even now, lying on my bunk, outside I can hear the men still yelling. But here in the f’oc’sle I’m all alone.

“This not for ye, landlubber! Too wet behind the ears,” they said. “Ye’ve done your shift, now off you go. Better try to rest your head!”

I notice now that my hand goes all atremble. Though I’m safe here, sound. At least I murmur that to myself. Surrounded by everything I've got used to: Bunks, hammocks, tables, lamps and chairs, cards left from last night’s game of Knucklethrough. A couple of tricks still lie around, the triumphant winning pairs.

At first glance all might look comfy, cozy. The stove provides warmth. But the waters out there have risen, the bull's-eye doesn't lie.

The closest thing I hear is the constant groaning of the hull, but what otherwise helped beaten seamen into a lull, inspired dreams, made one drift off, sound and deep, now rings all but foreboding: I’m tired, but there’s no way I can sleep. It’s as if with every creak and groan the words in the tome have become alive, feed on my fears, and thus encouraged they now take over and thrive...

I listen intently. More muffled shouting, cursing, yelling, commanding abound. Urgent, busy trampling of men’s feet. Dozens of boots, dozens of different beats. Barrels, crates now career wildly about the deck. There's the sound of ropes whipping around the masts – until by crewmen finally held in check.

Spray like heavy mist engulfs the ship. One of the men struggling on the mizzen shrieks before he loses grip and towards starboard swept crashes into a net, takes men with him who tried to flee, a moment later once more showered by the aggressive nature exhibited by the frantic sea.

The worst had been averted, but the storm rages on.

“Quick! Reinforce those hatches! Get the safety nettings up! Rig the lifelines! Not enough, repeat!” And so they go: Hands here, hands there. “That's it, mates! We’ve not come that far to now concede defeat!”

A captain’s voice needs to bellow, its fierceness coveys its strength.

However, wind and weather drives at us from astern, a most vicious sea is running. There’s a lightning flash, waters heaving, collapsing, then a thunder crash. Yet even darker ominous clouds are brewing, larger and larger watery mounts keep on our trail, pursuing...

“Captain! T’lower topsail sheet’s parted!” the first mate out of breath reports. “Sail’s blown out!”

Over the quarter-deck ring his desperate, disquieting shouts. Panic-stricken he signals, and momentarily more feet are already on the way.

Looking up one can see the flailing wreckage tangling from the mast.

“Haul it down! Furl it, lads! Clew up the remnants! On with it now, fast!”

The booming voice gives out its orders, but the unyielding sea once more looms over the rails.

“Damn it, boys, ignore the waters, up you go – now! – and fix those sails!”

As the captain speaks the sea pours in. Through the bow-, the hawse-holes the menace greets, over the knight-heads the enemy comes streaming, its power, its force threatening to wash everything aboard.

Yet there’s a will, a voice, a man’s defiant choice.

How clear, how strong, how resolute a command, uttered by one who takes his stand. How stalwart, courageous and unswerving the intent he shows for attaining and preserving the way he considers things are meant to be. He tames them, sorts them, arranges them, all according to what he wants to see. And tends to brush off everything that’s in his way, is prone to disagree: traits of man. An element among elements: Within the Earth’s and Wind’s confines he’s master of what he himself defines as vital, essential, imperative – such is how he conceives the world’s design. Dreams may give him direction, visions, though for him it’s reason that dictates decisions. He creates following the example of the Gods, but in his hubris he also dares betting against all odds. There’s the will in him that wants to master what he cannot grasp, to subdue what he succeeds to overcome, to push for more, never content with what he has done. Such is the way of man: Facing the storm, coercing it to go with a man made plan.

One by one they climb the masts. They handle their tasks while muttering, keep on curses sputtering, some expressions defiant, stern, the others distraught, aghast. But the sea takes no prisoners, and neither should we. We’re out there together faced with the tempest, for valour it calls, so braved it shall be. Away with you doubts, choices need to be made. For one must lead. A captain’s will is not to be swayed when the time to act has come. When chaos reigns it is his voice that has to be obeyed, for second chances this gale provides none.

However, I’ve seen such waters many a time, and I know: the fiercest battles are never won just by force. The ship ploughs on, now rolls on top of an enormous watery crest, rocking in a see-saw motion – so many, many of those crests have popped up, and by now they’ve filled the whole tumbling ocean...

“Aye, aye, steady, steady as she goes,” I confirm the helmsman’s course.

When you have to walk the Netherworlds just keep your calm, they say, pick your path. Then head straight on – don’t ever look back, don’t heed the horrors that pave your way. Aye, aye, I hear you: Ride the waves, make friends from foes, follow your tune: “Steady, steady as she goes...”

And the Netherworlds move in on us.

It’s the mass of a moving mountain that heaves the brig now high into the air, once more sends her towards the blackness substituting for a sky. Back again we then plunge, into a valley that’s more like a lair – nothing there either but dreariness and gloom: It’s a journey that progress belies, either down a gaping, scary rift or up by way of a daunting, dizzying lift, always we’re but engulfed by harbingers of doom.

And the Netherworlds move in on us.

Aye Baveras, we’ve heard your wrath!" So I pray while the icy wind nails me to the mizzen mast. We drop into the abyss, then again rise from the depths, the freeing ports spouting. Again and again the spectacle repeats itself, and men keep on running, rigging, shouting.

The storm is upon us...

Picture description. The storm is upon us... Image drawn by Seeker.

"Baveras, you've shown us your might, and with your rains and floods sent your minions to cross our path... – We’ve seen them, felt them, fought them. Whom will you prey on, now say, before your fury dies and the watery masses again will ebb away?”

For now there's no answer the almighty Goddess provides. Just her pet, the sea, surging, playing with us: hurling herself into the air, from her unimagined depths emerging, scourging the vessel wave by wave. The waters come crashing with thunderous plumes of spray, in their vehemence oblivious to how we yell for mercy, lament, wail and pray. While from above the rain drizzles unrelentingly, water, dark and voracious sloshes over from all sides, pours into the ship again, swirls upon swirls fill the deck. Wherever we move, whatever we try, it seems no use – from the elements we're firmly held in check.

Forgive me, for I have sinned, oh Wild and Untamed One," a mate next to me joins in. "Spare my soul, just this time. I'll swear, wherever I once went wrong: if you now help me through, whatever comes I will stay strong! For aren't you also the Helping, the Kind and Caring, the One who forgives man's faults, corrects him when he's erring? Who leads him to calmer waters – waters sparkling, soft and smooth and ripe with fish, invites us all to stay there, rejoice and hunt for such delicious dish? Aren’t you the One, who lets him once more appreciate the beauty of the sea, and through it we learn to live, to love and prosper, to worship, aye, to be? Forgive me, oh Baveras, you Playful, Joyful One: Won't you let those clouds now part, bless us with a glimpse of sun?"

I remember him mumbling the very same words again and again – a mantra of confessions, promises, pleas brought forward with devotion – out of awe born they are, of reverence in the face of the furious, rampant, raging ocean. And thus he keeps on repeating them, it is all he can do, helpless himself as man amongst man, overpowered by the enormity that is the giant sea, dwarfed by masses moving, proving how insignificant, how random their existence makes a single someone in midst of vastness be.

As for myself, I've fallen silent as I work.

While I'm clearing the tangled buntlines I watch my mates. Their fear speaks through their words, their every action. Beaten by the wind they stagger around like puppets on strings, and whatever they utter, all they really do is mutter – excuses about how and what they are. Yet they do so as if they're looking at their own selves back from afar, as if they've actually parted from what they've been, pretending to already be that someone else – another, that future self: the one they dream to be rather than how and what they've always been. But wind and weather, and Baveras' spirit therein, they have it all seen, have it all seen. They know what man is: the pulse of change between aspirations and his past. He's fickle, not lost for the prayers he once missed, but only when he finally grasps that the ways he's taken so far won't last. While there's will and determination in him, the seed to prevail against prospects grim, he's also weak if he's not alert, bound to failure if he stays inert. Aye, to a quick prayer the Gods may nod, but more likely they might remind us what we forgot when we so blindly begged them to do our will, instead of setting out ourselves, in order to fulfill what was once bedded with us in our cradle, acknowledge that we are able to bend what comes our way, to tip the scales, decide what's our want and what's left for the Gods to say.

So it is written, so I turn the page.

Thinking, I'm still lying awake on my bunk. I ponder about mommins, and pa, all my sibs. I imagine them hearing the news about our ship, how it sunk, just that other week. That it was supposed to long have fought, but then lost its battle against the merciless torrent. How it was covered, eventually, by a surge abhorrent, and that men from a distant brig observed how the vessel capsized, rolled to port, and then was quickly taken down. Down to the unfathomable grounds far, far beneath. And I imagine that the one ship that saw it all later returned to the spot, returned, just to throw us a wreath…

Timidly I look through one of the portholes. I dread the sight of the monster out there, the continuously fuming, untamable sea: it’s breathing, hissing like one giant beast, black and shiny as jet, all its savage passion now released. Though I can't spot that other vessel, not yet, the observer that would deliver the message to end the uncertainty for all my imagined anxiously waiting addressees. I admit that there's trepidation in me to get up and look whether the omen is behind a starboard porthole, just quietly lurking on that other side. It might be far out there, away from the storm, still gently rocking up and down, at times obscured by the tide, that ship, that messenger of fate, that will make the outmost fear come true: that all of us, whoever we are – captain, rigger, mate – that this time we won't get through.

The shadowy thought quietly creeps over me: What once was cannot forever be. The Gods created land, but they’ve surrounded them by moody seas. The rain continues beating down, it won't let up. Time and again I hear a wave rushing over the rails, exploding close, close by over the f’oc’sle. Violent winds try tearing apart those makeshift sails.

I cannot say anymore whether it is day, night, dusk or dawn. Halfheartedly I leaf through further pages, eventually I read on. Those lines... they seem to stare back at me. My lamp still glimmers, but the more I listen to the sound of water trickling, the more I feel forlorn. Once these verses were spoken by an elf – fears, doubts of an existence torn:

Oh my Mistress! The Storm breaks through this asking window,
clutching shutters, slams them aloud for keeping still;
far off I hear his grumbling as he wanders upon my willows,
and know for sure, he’ll strike again – and yes, he will.

Whence did he near, this neither friend nor foe of yours?
Who was the stranger, unleashing his forsaken might?
The sky grows darker, still my mind thinks even worse,
and my writing hand is all consumed by night.

Oh my dearest Mistress!
Why didst Thou let the traitor’s voice so loose?
Why must a distant howl grow more close and fierce?
Too long I’ve been sleeping, now woke up confused,
only to await what windy blades shall pierce?

In the end is this myth all but true,
that Thou art not here nor there?
That her struggle, belief, worship, say: truth
are just virtues the elf herself must bear?
Say: Is it all so true?
That our pain and hardship Thou wouldst not hear
and even faithful prayers – dear! –
Thou hast never deemed...
Storm’s been creeping outside my window,
thus all the time I’ve ever been.

Oh my Mistress!
I know.
I do know:
Thy Helpfulness, Thy Confidence,
all Thy Mightiness and Providence
– you've never ever dreamed.

But oh my Mistress!
Why are Thou
– not either?

As I read the lines once more, I slowly begin to grasp the elf’s unique dilemma: For such must be the fate of the Dream’s self-absorbed Weaver: Avá, the One, She’s eternal beauty born out of Naught, the corruption though is what Coór, Her mirrored image, wrought. Not from this world, yet entangled in Her own woven thread, the Weaver exists through an Other, the storm lives in Her stead. The Dreamer is not what is, just her Shadow, and the world is his.

Oh, how gnawing doubt can make an elf look almost human! Struggling in the tangled web of the inscrutable Schemer it’s hard to sense how untroubled, how soft and sound can rest existence’s lonesome Dreamer. But lore says that She’s unlike what She created, that what we perceive is merely reflected, fragmented, a phantom – but the Dreamer Herself, She cannot be debated. And thus Her Dream pervades the living, and life also builds upon the dead: May Coór, the Dark One, keep whole worlds in thrall, they’re however part of the Dreamer’s slumber and the sounder She sleeps the more She embraces them all.

Far away the elf 's trouble seems and yet it feels so close.

I sink back into bed, shut my eyes and contemplate time and place where I've been led in my short, humble life – just a youth looking for adventure, lacking goals, home, a wife. So it happened that I've drifted along, come what may. Aye, the priests used to tell me the Gods have given, and, yes, they can also take me away. – Ha, the Gods! I'm thankful though for all I've learned, for friends, for pleasures, even times when I got burned – but I've never ever given thought to all those things I ought to decide before my time has come, before Queprur's scythe will drive me to succumb, before I’ll face judgement by the one from the Twelvern known as the Blind: She'd point the further path, given what I'd leave behind. Aye, I trust there will be something there I’d leave, albeit I’m not the one to know exactly what it is. Time may be short now, ready I have to be – a runaway, a good-for-nothing, suitable just for burial at sea.

Prepare thy soulcup then, Queen of Rats,
take me if you must...

...and at this very moment the foc’s’le door
bursts open with a thunderous blast.

An unearthly, shrieking, blood-curdling howl pierces the air. All of a sudden I’m assaulted by impressions of sails vehemently rattling, sailors desperately battling, heavy sea splashing over the midship boards.

As commanded the ship however keeps its stalwart course, and the crew sticks with its praying that we're heading lighter skies towards...

Through the opened door I now notice a gaunt man approaching from the stern. A heavy coat thrown over his shoulders he has just stepped out, around his wrist swings a flickering lamp: goes out into the storm to wander about. Amidst the turmoil with his heavy boots clacking he grabs a lifeline, stops, looks around, then inquires where another hand might be lacking.

Finally he spots me.

There I am, watching the unfamiliar scene from the safety of the foc’s’le, sitting on my bunk, all alone, deserted by the others, here with my chest, holding on to everything I’ve ever owned – but in truth it’s really nothing but junk, for a simple life easily fits in a likewise ordinary trunk... The invading tempest though nevertheless makes me shiver to the bone.

Our eyes lock. Two strangers who only once had seen each other before at the docks, what must have been days ago. As the stranger catches my glimpse he briefly nods, and while I’m hesitant I return the greeting.
No, I guess it was no substitute for a real meeting, but it must have been arranged by intervention of the Gods, or so I would think days, months, years from that one point in time when through the horror that grabbed me then would shine an unknown, something so enormous, inconceivably sublime...

Death at sea

Picture description. Pushed against the rail I lose my balance. Then I tumble and fall. Image drawn by Seeker.

The waters come.

A forbidding wave like a vicious dragon rears its ugly head. The monster emerges, shoots over the rail, by a gust whipped violently aboard. With it the driving rain brings spray and hail – elusive foes, fearless of any sword. Pitch black the serpent's liquid sleek body shines, smoking white only at its foaming crest, and loud and furious one can hear a hissing, conveying the wrath of the sneering unwelcome guest. Despite it strikes out with claws and fangs missing the beast prepares for a decisive attack: In a blink it charges along starboard, ferocious as an orcish riotous horde, its momentum taking us aback...

The lifeline snaps, I’m flung around. Everything disappears before my eyes.

Eventually, the spray settles, the thunderous noise subsides. Then, one last time I see the stranger: Wide eyes of a youth, a mere hand, still on his way to become a man, out on the ocean to see the world, and the world, it looks back at him: on a dangerous course he is, another one who must decide what’s destiny, what’s one of life's meaningless whims.

Pushed against the rail I lose my balance. Then I tumble and fall, I tumble... and fall...

And within an instant – there goes all.

I mean to scream, but can’t. Something sucks me down. With gurgling pleasure the depths devour its helpless prey. As I struggle I know all I can do is sink and drown, sensing my life is now about to be snatched away... Captured, defeated I give up, am pushed under, let myself get swallowed by turmoil and stir. From the world above I feel torn, ripped asunder as the sky in an instance transforms into a blur.


Whatever I’m surrounded with now turns calm, turns silent. My slate’s wiped right clean. And the further I progress, the more I sink into the in-between, to a place where a vision enwraps me, lets me remember, sense and see: For a brief moment I become aware of her. There she is, in the brightest white, with silky hair flowing, the features soft, head held high as if the wind holds Her aloft, as if She's at comfort only up there, floating in the sky. Yet She has touched down, just this once, and right now She looks straight into my eyes. Then She closes them, Hers and mine, and together we're swept away in the flow of a stream that feels safe and secure, so pure, so serene: Soft, sound, solemn I drift, right back into a dream...

Aye, mate! How certain, how purposeful, how unperturbed and with fresh resolve one finds one’s self go back to a place, a motion, a memory, a face – then, when all is lost, when that final frontier has been reached, then crossed. It's the point of no return, they say: No more ropes to learn, no sails to rig, anchors to throw, masts to climb: nothing there ahead, astern... When you're drifting, with the unknown merging, shifting – leaving... When you've been picked for heading elsewhere: Slowly you forget about future, about past, then thinking, breathing, embark on a voyage that is not anymore your own, when you peel off your skin because it’s yourself you finally have outgrown...

To reach these ever tranquil waters the harsh ones you have to pass through. But once arrived you'll find the sea lying all still and the sky above mirroring its blue. Then, when your things are done and you'll again join the ocean's oh so magnificent hue. Then, when you'll return.

And yet, so distant the promised peace might seem when you're still being rocked by those waves, when you just only get a taste of the storm brewing, when you're being challenged, on your quest to find what's worth pursuing.
But aye, it lies in a seaman’s blood to dream and feel, a life long trapped between fore and aft, carried by the powers slumbering in the keel. It’s in a seaman’s blood to loosen sails, to brace the yards and venture forth on watery trails, by wind and weather battered, scarred, roughened, toughened. To defy the beast that is the sea, to love her dearly – yes, as such is she: a monster, a mother, a lover, call it that other, the one that you are not, the one, who draws you, awes you, that grabs, assaults you while you sleep, that lets you long for her and makes you suffer and weep. That grants you passage on a sunny day, that stays with you, leads you away, that lies becalmed, flat and quiet, then again rejoices in newfound lust, inspires riot. But more often than not the wind and the ocean keep you alive, in motion – to whatever you’re destined to arrive...

Until that day. When you once and for all reach that island, that shore, that bay. Those calm waters. That day that is the day, it will come. The point in time towards which you were born. The day when your travelling boots stay in the corner, because they’ve had their share, the day when they’re old and worn. You might live through it in peace and quiet, home again, or as a stranger in a stranger’s land, maybe out at sea, riding a surge, sharing it with others, loved ones, sisters, brothers, mates that pulled you through. You might be all but forgotten, even cursing what there ever was as wretched, damned, rotten, in time of need abandoned by your crew.

Aye, mate, to complement the day that you were born, there will be that other one without the morn. Wherever you’ll be, however you’ll feel, towards whatever coast the unknown helmsman finally turns the wheel: a sailor’s spirit never leaves the sea, and like that monster, mother, lover, he lives on with her, ever, ever in motion, has become part of the eternal ocean. 'cause that's what you are: the one that draws and awes another, that grabs, assaults one while they sleep, that lets them long, makes them suffer and weep. You're that one, you're a note in eternity's song. For you're more than the Gods' ephemeral tool, even a drowning sailor is a ripple in the Dreamer's pool.

Aye, so quiet the waters once had lain, but since the days’ beginnings, ever, ever has rocked the sea. Back and forth, forth and back again: gently, smoothly, silently. But from the Wind sprang the Earth, and through Wind and Earth the waters came to be. Thus the Great War began and born was the tide, everlasting by nature, ever recurring, never meant to subside. For unlike the Earth never ever would the Wind itself stand still: be it through his liveliness or anger he's been exerting his will, intent to destruct, but also to shape and to form – in its wake tranquility, it owes itself to the storm. While the Wind whistles and over land and waters is sweeping, the Dream's Weaver awakens to Herself as She's sleeping. For in the Wind She feels there lies Her Spirit, that what makes things be, what is reflected in the Earth, what longs with the Fire, what drives the tide in the endless, ageless, ever moving sea. Might the waters come and go, remember, oh ye man of the sea: nothing else do we.

Waves we've been, and waves we'll be, and waves are dreamt to rock the sea. Never alone, it's our voyage we call home, and as we go we rock alongside our sisters and brothers – through them, with them we are, born to be rocked while rocking all the others. For that's what we waves are meant to be: on our way between Wind and Earth, wave by wave, we make the sea.

Waves among waves are fleeting, yet as a whole the ocean lives on. Forever on, never gone, for waves are but the wind’s next songs.

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 Date of last edit 19th Sleeping Dreameress 1675 a.S.

Mystery Tale written by by Artimidor Federkiel View Profile