This story, which is called "Thoughts of a Wanderer", is an independent fanfic. Neither this story, nor the author is authorized or sponsored by, nor licensed or affiliated in any way with any entity involved with or representing the development, marketing, distribution or support of Interplay Productions, Black Isle Studios or BioWare Corporation. All titles, items, and characters, described or referred to in "The Thoughts of a Wanderer" of the original game are trademarks of their respective companies. This fanfic is absolutely non-commercial and non-profit, and may not be distributed in any forms or in any parts without prior consent of the author "Adventuress".
Hey everyone! This is my first fic so please be gentle! This page is just a prelude to a story (which I've had kicking around in my mind for a while). Please enjoy. Any constructive criticism is welcome!
Day 30, Hour 12 (1 Mirtul, 1369)
Death.
Some say death is a deliverance; a timely release that is woven into the strands of fate to ease the pain and suffering of mortality. These intellects embrace demise; welcome it with a wide smile and open arms. Others look upon it as a hindrance, a blockade to achieving the highest power, or simplest pleasure. These thinkers resent departure, so much so that they try and bend it to their own selfish will.
Every night I have thought endlessly about these two philosophies while staring at the glimmering heavens and cursing them so. I have tried to place myself in one category or another for some time now; I cannot. My mind…it wails in agony every time I step forward, begging and pleading for the pain and misery to end. But both my heart and soul tell me there is hope. Hope that I will overcome righteousness that has turned from the light, and mend evils that were not supposed to be broken.
My blood.
My blood has nothing and everything to do with it…
-Sable
Day 31, Hour 18 (1 Mirtul, 1369)
It is a dance; a glorious dance for spectators with unseeing eyes. Two performers lift their heads in hesitation, calculating the unseen motion upon the ground. They are weary, weary of the same routine that they have participated in repeatedly. Suddenly, one of them moves, sending a shudder of anticipation into their sweating fingers. Their eyes flicker with smoldering passion; bodies quiver with concealed adrenaline. So they dance. The movements of their hands and feet, fast and flowing, are the only real thing on their minds. The intricate steps one must take during the performance are like coquetry with certain death. In a long spell the dance is done, like dying embers slowly extinguished by a cruel breeze. One of them falls; hushed whispers from the hidden crowd swallow them, consuming both psyche and spirit. The silent audience stands and applauds, but they cannot hear the praise.
This is no dance; this is real. This is a battleground. This is my life.
-Sable