Post by DYSY Admin on Aug 16, 2008 10:59:47 GMT -5
The disconsolate black ink flowed from the pen like well practiced calligraphy, ornate loops and delicately dotted "i"s seeping into the yellowed parchment with every flick of the Wizard's practiced wrist. He had become so accustomed to dictating his letters, it seemed almost flawed to waste his energy forming the characters himself; but he did so, out of necessity. Existence often called for such sacrifices to be made, and so the aristocrat etched his thoughts into reality with an unprecedented ease. The words were venom flowing from his pen, transcribing themselves into the pages of the diary to remain there for all time. Perhaps one day, as he had often entertained the notion, his words would become canon, and everyone would recall him as a maistro of words.
January 1, 1979.
"As I stared at the clock before me, ticking away the last fleeting seconds of a passing year, I found myself mesmerized by the notion of life. As an active member of society, I have grown comfortable in this seventh decade, but I fear things soon shall change. The black tar of the street has absorbed a sickening, metallic red hue, tainted so by the blood of the massacre that lay soaking into it. Even those who choose no side are being executed by the hundreds, proving that this Dark Lord is indeed as barbarous and inhuman as society perceived. With every ticking of the clock, I fear that we may underestimate him yet.
This evil cloud creeps ever steadily towards what strongholds society retains, proving evermore that once was cannot always be. There is no way out: the cowards will lay slain with the brave, punished as much for their apathy as the good were for their courage. The murdered have come packaged with revelation: sides must be chosen. It is only in knowing where one belongs that true power can be drawn. Who knows why those who choose do? Moral fiber and ethics? Or perhaps fear and peer pressure? All that is sure is that some may never know, and others will remain indifferent until the bitter end. All the more, I'm certain traitors lay within the ranks on both sides...and it is up to the individual to decide who to trust. If anyone at all.
The nuclear realm of despair rolls steadily on, and more lives fall pray to Voldemort with each sun that sets. The desolate reach of his charge laughs haughtily on the horizon of all countries: England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, France, Germany, Poland, Italy, Greece, and what I fear to be infinitely more. If there are souls to command and lives to take, there shall also be his presence, and those willing to fight him to the death. The war is coming.
Wizards are flocking from every nation in Eurasia, swarming onto the origin of his stronghold. If England falls to Voldemort, each nation shall in turn: we are the battleground for this changing tide of warfare. It is our homeland that shall be shattered, destroyed, and damaged...but we will not be alone.
In the end, we all will be stripped of our wealth.
Nationality, blood, social caste: everything we held high will be meaningless.
All that remains is what we etched into the sands of time.
The principles on which we stood, the friendships that we made.
The lives we touched, and the company with which we kept.
The voracity with which we loved, the passion with which we abhorred.
The life in which we lived."
[/left]Nationality, blood, social caste: everything we held high will be meaningless.
All that remains is what we etched into the sands of time.
The principles on which we stood, the friendships that we made.
The lives we touched, and the company with which we kept.
The voracity with which we loved, the passion with which we abhorred.
The life in which we lived."
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