02-28-2017, 04:27 AM
Luke Darby turns out to be both more and less interesting than Dawnika Snow.
The shriveled shepherd tells me of a life made up entirely of an interconnected series of small adventures and met expectations, his initial (and fully appropriate) caution giving way to an enthusiasm for reminiscence. He never took any risks, nor reaped any great rewards, and when he and his wife were summoned to the Omniverse by some nameless Prime he didn't see any reason to change his behavior. Darby believes himself to be well enough liked in town, but mostly he keeps to himself, tending his sheep until shearing season comes (shearing being a disappointing word, in that it sounds like something far better than its actual meaning).
Much of what Darby describes I don't understand, and he seems incapable of explaining - not the actions, but the emotions and motives behind them. He's pursued goals out of love, which is a word I know, but seems to have no definition. Much of his life seems to have been driven by a sense of obligation - a thing I have never experienced, ever. The closest I can come to relating is a yen for Revenge. The man is fascinating in his unfathomable emotions, and the quiet pride he seems to take in his simple tasks.
The tasks themselves, however, are woefully mundane. As I follow him, listening to descriptions of bygone rivalries over things like grazing space full of endless tangents about people he knows and things he's done, he performs a variety of sheep-related tasks. He walks the fences, to ensure there aren't any gaps. He checks on the ones who seem languid or sluggish. He ministers to a sick lamb, using items from his leather bag.
At one point, I ask him why.
"Someone's gotta do it, Mi'lord. The silly beasts can't take care'a themselves."
I turn that over in my mind, as he goes back to discussing some misadventure of his youth involving competition over a female. I do see the logic - these fluffy woolen creatures provide a valuable resource for the community the shepherd is a part of, and he's their caretaker. What I don't understand is why he didn't become literally anything else. Darby has no dreams, or at least none that he'll share, and his apparent satisfaction with his role is beyond my comprehension.
By the time the sun is directly overhead, its blazing light making my hide shine so brightly that even I can see the glow, I believe I've come to understand the man as much as I'm able. He's a very textured creature though not, I think, terribly complex. He lacks excitement, but his sense of duty towards his work and the web of relationships around him will make useful points of reference as I continue to learn about this place.
When the time comes, I think I'll make sure to vaporize his sheep first, and then the dairy, and then his house, collapsing his life around him in rapid succession. The aesthetics of ravaging a civilization would seem to apply, scaling down nicely - the sequence has always been important, the reaction of the whole to the removal of a part adding to the breadth and impact of the experience. Destruction is about more than just smashing things, after all; Ruin, thorough ruin, is the goal, but desolation and despair also have their place upon my canvas.
I turn to go, leaving him sitting on the turf, contentedly eating a meal of bread and cheese. Over the course of the morning, his fear of me has disappeared, the opportunity to talk about himself and my lack of violence putting him at his ease. Darby continues to speak for several seconds after I've gone before breaking off and calling after me.
"Where're ye going?"
I don't answer him, and he seems wisely content to leave it at that.
I've been on the road again for about an hour, heading along a wagon-beaten dirt path towards a wooded glen with the roofs of houses protruding above trees, when I receive a rude shock. As I walk, radiant as a descended star between a stone-fenced meadow and a field full of grain, something coiled within the sea of cosmic fire blazing at the core of my being violently un-knots - a kink in the astral flux which I had been totally unaware of suddenly setting itself to rights.
I stumble mid-stride, and I stare at nothing. The sleeping, ascended form within me stirs, and I realize something I hadn't before:
It's too faint.
I was so overtaken with the sensation of awakening, of imminent ascension, that I didn't even realize; I still haven't got access to my proper body! The potential I've regained far outshines this paltry frame, but compared to the light that shone within when I traveled between the stars in my cosmic cocoon, its still much too weak. Were I to access it now, I'd likely end up occupying an immature form, soft and dull, still undeveloped - better than nothing, but far from correct.
I growl and I stride forward, doubling my pace, eager to explore the village ahead - both the lives of its people, and whatever Omnilium they may have to offer.
The shriveled shepherd tells me of a life made up entirely of an interconnected series of small adventures and met expectations, his initial (and fully appropriate) caution giving way to an enthusiasm for reminiscence. He never took any risks, nor reaped any great rewards, and when he and his wife were summoned to the Omniverse by some nameless Prime he didn't see any reason to change his behavior. Darby believes himself to be well enough liked in town, but mostly he keeps to himself, tending his sheep until shearing season comes (shearing being a disappointing word, in that it sounds like something far better than its actual meaning).
Much of what Darby describes I don't understand, and he seems incapable of explaining - not the actions, but the emotions and motives behind them. He's pursued goals out of love, which is a word I know, but seems to have no definition. Much of his life seems to have been driven by a sense of obligation - a thing I have never experienced, ever. The closest I can come to relating is a yen for Revenge. The man is fascinating in his unfathomable emotions, and the quiet pride he seems to take in his simple tasks.
The tasks themselves, however, are woefully mundane. As I follow him, listening to descriptions of bygone rivalries over things like grazing space full of endless tangents about people he knows and things he's done, he performs a variety of sheep-related tasks. He walks the fences, to ensure there aren't any gaps. He checks on the ones who seem languid or sluggish. He ministers to a sick lamb, using items from his leather bag.
At one point, I ask him why.
"Someone's gotta do it, Mi'lord. The silly beasts can't take care'a themselves."
I turn that over in my mind, as he goes back to discussing some misadventure of his youth involving competition over a female. I do see the logic - these fluffy woolen creatures provide a valuable resource for the community the shepherd is a part of, and he's their caretaker. What I don't understand is why he didn't become literally anything else. Darby has no dreams, or at least none that he'll share, and his apparent satisfaction with his role is beyond my comprehension.
By the time the sun is directly overhead, its blazing light making my hide shine so brightly that even I can see the glow, I believe I've come to understand the man as much as I'm able. He's a very textured creature though not, I think, terribly complex. He lacks excitement, but his sense of duty towards his work and the web of relationships around him will make useful points of reference as I continue to learn about this place.
When the time comes, I think I'll make sure to vaporize his sheep first, and then the dairy, and then his house, collapsing his life around him in rapid succession. The aesthetics of ravaging a civilization would seem to apply, scaling down nicely - the sequence has always been important, the reaction of the whole to the removal of a part adding to the breadth and impact of the experience. Destruction is about more than just smashing things, after all; Ruin, thorough ruin, is the goal, but desolation and despair also have their place upon my canvas.
I turn to go, leaving him sitting on the turf, contentedly eating a meal of bread and cheese. Over the course of the morning, his fear of me has disappeared, the opportunity to talk about himself and my lack of violence putting him at his ease. Darby continues to speak for several seconds after I've gone before breaking off and calling after me.
"Where're ye going?"
I don't answer him, and he seems wisely content to leave it at that.
***
I've been on the road again for about an hour, heading along a wagon-beaten dirt path towards a wooded glen with the roofs of houses protruding above trees, when I receive a rude shock. As I walk, radiant as a descended star between a stone-fenced meadow and a field full of grain, something coiled within the sea of cosmic fire blazing at the core of my being violently un-knots - a kink in the astral flux which I had been totally unaware of suddenly setting itself to rights.
I stumble mid-stride, and I stare at nothing. The sleeping, ascended form within me stirs, and I realize something I hadn't before:
It's too faint.
I was so overtaken with the sensation of awakening, of imminent ascension, that I didn't even realize; I still haven't got access to my proper body! The potential I've regained far outshines this paltry frame, but compared to the light that shone within when I traveled between the stars in my cosmic cocoon, its still much too weak. Were I to access it now, I'd likely end up occupying an immature form, soft and dull, still undeveloped - better than nothing, but far from correct.
I growl and I stride forward, doubling my pace, eager to explore the village ahead - both the lives of its people, and whatever Omnilium they may have to offer.