Lords of Twilight

Ours is eternal silence, we walk the hidden path. Light and Darkness flow
together in our weaving hands, to form us, our flesh and our home, the
shadows. Slow and dispassionate, our gaze wanders the lands, nothing
is important to us, except the shadow. In twilight we shall become visible
for prying eyes, for a short time questions or favors may be asked of us.
We never speak, we never answer, our trust cannot be earned, and not even
bought. All of us are one, we fear nobody, one great shadow to flow back
and forth in time and space. Some call us Lords, some call us peasants, we
are what we want to be. From great mountains to deepest sea, we are found
in every shadow, seeing everything, and observing every deed. We do not
judge. We do not help. We simply are. Secrets are told in whispers, between
the shadows, so near to our ears, great treasure is locked away, in caverns
full of shadow, between us, and our kin. We know much, and we do not
tell. Even if Light lets us shy away and shrink, we do not turn to Darkness.
We are in between. Our presence delights Father Drakkhon, but even he
cannot look beyond. Magic or the will of a god cannot bind or catch us,
we are in every shadow, we can go anywhere. Peaceful and of wonder made
are our cities, great and small, where we rest, where we talk and where
we become one with the shadow when our time is up. Gently flowing,
the fabric of shadow is woven by our mistresses, adept at conjuring up
the most beautiful of forms. We come and go as we please, from shadow
to shadow, nobody has ever seen our true form. Some call us a mystery,
some call us a riddle, we are both and none. For some, we are strong spirits,
to be worshipped and praised, for others, we are pitiable ghosts, to be
ridiculed and driven away. We do not care. We are what we are, made
of shadow, we are shadow. Only to poets, we do listen, for they alone have
the talent to appeal to us. Only words of beauty, our kind of magic, can
draw our attention. So, if by a candle, sits a lonley man, or a being,
writing word and with it thought, and if there is true talent and wonder
in it, we come, flowing into the wavering shadow produced by the candle.
Greatest awe we do possess, for those whose tools are words to shape
something magnificent, and honour we bestow to those who achieve
greatness through it. We never forget a poem, or a great work of literature,
written by a skilled hand, we treasure this in our hearts, from age to age,
in the great libraries of shadow, in our home and place of birth.


About sovalkon

I am the Grey Knight.

Posted on January 28, 2012, in Fantasy and tagged . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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