Of Fear

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Zadara the Titan's picture
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Of Fear

We all know fear. Apprehension in difficult situations. The fear for loved ones. Panic even, when all we thought we knew crumbles around us. But it is a natural thing. Instincts of self-preservation come to the fore to warn us from impending danger. Surely there can be nothing harmful in that?

As fellow disciples of the Paths you know this to be false. Fear IS harmful. Fear can get out of control. It paints hundred dreadful fates for ourselves, makes us hesitate. Makes us reconsider. It arises even, when there is no true danger. It is the cheapest of tricks in the arsenal of fiends and sorcerers. Fear fashions shackles the mind and paralyses the body. There is no harmony in one afraid. No unity. The Truth slips away from him.

But how can it be overcome? What is it that makes fear so dangerous? A man who fears is betrayed by himself. His body betrays him and his minds stabs him in the back, crippling him. When the mind perceives or even only imagines a threat or simply something unknown, it begins to worry. But body and mind are tied together. The body feels the mind being troubled and reacts. A physician would speak about humours and bodily fluids, but the why is not relevant at this point. But you all know of what I speak. The heart begins to race. Ice flows through our veins. Muscles tremble in anticipation of a mortal threat. A feeling like the flow of a lightning rips through our nerves.

And the mind sees. Sees the body in uproar and in turn reacts. Imagination runs wild. Phantasms of pain arise before our inner eyes, visions of possible futures. Reason is overwhelmed, cannot solve the riddle set before it in form of nameless sensations. Panic sets in, unreasonable and devouring. And the body feels. And the mind sees. Each expression of fear is the source of the next, between mind and body fear escalates. And we hover in the darkness of not-knowing. We falter.

But it does not have to happen in that way. There are those, who advocate the power of reason as weapon with which to defeat fear. In complete separation of mind and body can freedom be found from the dangerous urges of the body, that corrupt the clarity of thought. When there is only conscious thought to govern any action, when the intellect has assumed total control, then there can be no fear. For reason knows only degrees of danger and proper responses to it. Thus they say.

But you, my friends, know that this cannot be our path. Separating mind from body, bringing that foolish dualism to its very conclusion, is the antithesis of all that we strive for. Thus, there is another way. A transcendent way. Through inner harmony can fear also be overcome. When there is no distinction between mind and body, between thought and action, how *can* we fear? The master does not waver in the face of danger. Fear flows through him, flows through him and finds no hold. Where there are no two parts, between which fear can escalate, there it cannot control, there it cannot destroy us. Like reed in the wind the master bows and bends, when fright comes over him, and like reed he does not break and is not overcome. And so after surging through him, the fear leaves the master. He remains free. In harmony. In Unity. And he acts.

-- Overheard in the Great Gymnasium

Anarch's picture
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Of Fear

Nice. It'd be interesting to explore the concept of fear from the various factions...

OpheliaWhispers's picture
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Of Fear

Vry well written. I liked it alot Laughing out loud . I agree, it would be interesting to see fear through the eyes of all the factions. I wonder if we can start a list here and each person pick a faction or two to speak from.

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Doomed to be afraid

The old Doomlord had brought me to this wretched place through a succession of portals, several of them one-way as he was delighted to point out. Now we were standing at the edge of a sheer cliff overlooking one of the blasted plateaus of the Plane of Infinite Portals. Below a column of tanar’ri marched. Well, not really. A frenzied mob of those immortal butchers had spilled from one portal and was being herded to another. I hoped, prayed fervently to no particular god, that they hadn’t spotted us.

“Do you see this?” The old man’s face was as blasted as the plain below, but his voice was like an iron rod – rusted and pitted but solid metal below that. “Do you see these numbers beyond counting, going to slaughter unimaginable? Can you see the promise of destruction swirling from them like smoke on the wind? Are you properly afraid?”

I did not know, what to say. I was terrified by the relative nearness of a Blood War army. But when you’re on what amounts to a secret mission for your superior and a test for yourself, can you really admit that? “I ... my mind is clear of distractions,” I managed after a moment. The Doomlord struck me. “Don’t lie to me, runt. Now try again.” Holding my bleeding nose I veritably spit out the words. “Yes, I am frightened. Nothing can stop those, who stride below. If they spot us, we’re dead before we can even think about it!”

“Ahhhhh.” The smile on the man’s face was almost ecstatic. “Precisely. Imminent destruction ever makes us poor, limited creatures tremble in fear. And rightfully so, as you noted. Do not ever deny this again.” He paused to look at me. “Have you understood, what I’m trying to say?” I merely blinked in confusion.

He stopped me with an impatient gesture. “Here, look at my hand. A great tool, wouldn’t you agree? Creation comes easy to it, no artisan uses something other than his hands. And now look at those below – do they have hands such as these? Do they create? No! They are a force of ruin, of devastation, of utter annihilation. And their bodies reflect that truth. Claws and sharp bones, teeth and spikes. Even if they wanted, they couldn’t stem the tides of universal decay.”

“And fear is a part of that nature, too. Even the aspect a lone dretch can evoke insane fear in the mind of a mortal. Dread is knotted into their very body, horror rides their breath. The tanar’ri are blinded in their convictions, but they are servants of decay nonetheless. They destroy. They spread panic. Do you recall, what Mistilf says about fear? It erodes the mind and turns strength into weakness. Yes, I see the understanding in your eyes.”

“Fright collapses the buildings of logic inside your mind. Your body is wracked with conflicting urges, you succumb to confusion, then to blind panic. Fear destroys you from within. Fear is Entropy. Do not fight it. Do not deny it. Embrace it! Savour the taste of decay swirling through your mind. Let it consume you in full. And if you have the strength to survive it, then spread the same dread to others. Our aspect may not carry the same weight as that of a tanar’ri, but our imagination is infinitely greater. In bringing terror over our enemies and the whole multiverse we can devastate more than any Blood War army can. Fear reduces worlds to nothing. Panic turns a group of harmless people into an insane mob, into a force of destruction.”

I looked over the terrible army in sudden wonder. The old man’s voice continued. “Learn the facets of fear. Make others feel terror. Bring madness over them. Fear is Entropy.” When I turned to express my thanks for the lesson, he had long disappeared. Below I saw a tanar'ri pointing towards me. The horror ...

--Diary of a Dustbringer

OpheliaWhispers's picture
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Of Fear

Now that is what I am talking about. Laughing out loud

One faction down, several more to go.

Ophelia

Zadara the Titan's picture
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Of Fear

I edited some minor stuff above.

And yes, I'll probably continue on this, though everybody should feel free to join in Smiling.

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Of Fear

Nice, particularly the first one. The second one seems a little forced, linking fear and entropy like that. Please continue.

Zadara the Titan's picture
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Of Fear

Mmmhh. What part would you change? How do you think I could improve on it? Smiling

I was thinking about how you might have party with lots of people, everybody talking, everybody happy. Social structures influence every interaction, each word exchanged builds something. All this is only natural.

Now suppose you are one of the Doomguard, one of those being convinced that entropy is progressing too slowly. You could simply burn down the house - destruction shares aspects with entropy. But you also could introduce fear to the game. Be it by magic or other means, if you terrify the guests, the civilized behaviour breaks down. Where you had a group of pleasant people before, you have a panicked flood now. They will trample each other, ignore all ideals they might have, turn away from logic and reason. Call it chaos, call it destruction... or call it helping entropy along.

*shrug*

It's not the most sane view, sure. It's not the opinion of the majority of the faction, certainly. It has a decidedly evil bent, if you want. But I think the basic premise isn't forced at all - though my writing may very well be. I'm far from being as good at pouring my ideas into words than I'd like Eye-wink.

As I said, suggestions for improvement are welcome Smiling.

Edit: Ahh right. Where I cite Steven Erikson as inspiration for aspects of the first piece (and Batman Begins as the occasion, that made me think about the nature of fear) I might mention Harald Evers for the second. 'Steal from a thousand others', they say ...

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Of Fear

Would you mind if I took the Bleakers?

Zadara the Titan's picture
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Of Fear

Not at all Eye-wink.

As in

Quote:
... though everybody should feel free to join in Smiling.

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Of Fear

'Zadara the Titan' wrote:
Mmmhh. What part would you change? How do you think I could improve on it?

I wouldn't change anything, it's a nice little piece. When I said "forced" I meant "a little arbitrarily assigned". I see the connection, but it sounds like you could just as easily make a case for linking entropy with hate, ennui, desire, or any other "negative" motivator.

Don't get me wrong, I like what you did with the Doomguard, it's just that like the Cipher story better.

BTW, I tried writing about Fear and Dusties, but it turned out too quasi-buddhistic, so I dropped it.

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What? I haven't the time... oh very well. You can follow along in my rounds if you'd like, cutter, but mark my words: disturb my patients and I'll see to it you'll end up among them.

Of course I'm joking. Really. Can't you tell?

No?

Too bad.

...

See this one here? Nyzthul of Gearm, or so it says here. I wouldn't know. He usually calls himself "Modronista" when he refers to himself at all, which ain't often. Got too close to Regulus says the factol, and the exposure to perfect law done tainted him something fierce. Supposedly can't tell the difference between himself and others, which makes for some interesting times when we're handing out the medications. Although he seems to distinguish himself just fine when it's time for pudding, if you know what I mean.

He's afraid of dice.

Petrified, poor dear. He'll start howling like a mad beast, perfect law be damned. Something about the randomness utterly terrifies him. Clickety clack, clickety clack they go, and clickety clack, clickety clack goes his mind. Last time that soddin' addle-cove Rissal wagered with his good-for-nothing cronies, we had to pick Nyzthul's teeth out of the walls for weeks. He'd tried to chew his way through solid stone.

That's fear.

...

Her? Name's Aliscon Yavgavenny. Planewalker of some renown about ten years ago, I think.

Well, of course you haven't heard of her. She's in here.

Don't know much about her myself, really, 'cept what others tell me. Rissal's sweet on her; if she were whole and hearty, I don't doubt he'd be trying to put himself in her way, if'n you know what I mean, regardless of she bein' a patient and him bein' a guard.

Of course, given the way she's at...

Yep, it's dark in here. Deliberate-like. Aliscon used to run errands for the Planewalker's Guild over on the Staircase. Got herself a bit of a name, got herself a bit of a reputation, fancied herself a bit of something, and that's where it went wrong. That's where it always goes wrong. I've heard it at least a dozen different ways, but chant is she tried to peel a loth on the Waste. Little extra garnish for herself and none in the Guild the wiser. Only the loth found out, see, and a couple of years later Aliscon took a little trip to Elysium that somehow landed her in the Furnaces. Don't know what they did to her 'cept as it left no marks.

None on the outside at least.

I heard tell she was some high-up, brash and bonny and cavorting from one plane -- and one bed -- to another. Not now. She hasn't left that cot of her own will in six years. I help her with her waste and Rissal helps her with a little exercise to keep the body going. Don't really know why; it's not like the body's where the problem's at; but that's our role here in the Gatehouse. If she had any family, let them hope. We're here to keep her alive and as comfortable as possible, that's it. And if it's likely futile... well, you're beginning to understand the point.

Or rather, the pointlessness.

Oh right, the dark. See, we don't know what they did to her but it must've involved bright light 'cause that terrifies the blex out of her. Literally, sometimes. She don't scream like Modronista. She just disappears. Her spirit gets swallowed into a chasm that'd eat the Abyss itself and the tanar'ri too. We were bringing a thrasher in one night -- some poor barmy who'd fallen victim to a cerebral parasite, if I remember right -- and Rissal was lighting the way with a torch. Turns out that fool Jonah had left Aliscon's door open. After we scragged the thrasher in the cell, it took five of us to start her heart and breath again. Then Rissal took to Jonah for being a careless sod and I can't say as how I blame him.

That'd be why Jonah's in the next cell over.

...

Serina? She's a slip of a thing, really. We don't usually have children in this section of the Gatehouse. Most of'em just die, see, so they get sent to our big ugly twin and we let the Dusties take'em on. Them that live, well, they usually end up in some gang or other and eventually they get scragged and feed the Wyrm.

As I said: we're here to comfort them, not hope for them.

Serina was different, though. She pulled through in the body. The mind, well, that's another matter. I'd love to tell you what her story is but, as usual, we don't know so I'll just have to guess. 'course, she ain't the first, nor will she be the last, so I think my guesses will be good as darks to ya. Her family was poor; they lost everything they had; father was probably a bubber, spent all their jink on spirits you could strip varnish with. Mother turned tricks as a greenskirt but still couldn't raise enough to keep them whole. The family disintegrated. Probably fell prey to a loan shark, or maybe just a bunch of thugs who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Same old story, a thousand times over.

Did her family sell Serina off into slavery, make her turn herself out as a two-copper whore? Was she taken in by some big strong man who like to rape her in the night? Maybe a tiefling band decided to amuse themselves at her expense for a few weeks. Who can say? Who cares? She's been raped and beaten and abused and ground down and all without the slightest magical influence. No balor ravaged her with its mighty supernal lust; no pit fiend seduced her into a life of vilest evil. She's simply one of the thousands who's been chewed up and spit out by a Cage that's got no more mercy in it than the Lady it's captured. Only thing different this time is she's still alive. If you call this living.

And since you ask: she's afraid of everything.

I mean everything, cutter. Her every moment is saturated in fear. Raise your voice; turn away too sudden; strike a light or douse it; anything and everything will terrify her. After a while you'd think a body would get used to it but that's only 'cause their mind's unbroken. Shatter that, and it don't matter how long you've been frightened, you've got an eternity of terror to go.

Let me answer your question so you don't have to ask it. Yes, there are days I'd like to kill her myself, put her out of her misery. But that's not my place. She's in pain and terror and despair and there ain't no-one but us here in the Gatehouse to care for her, and that's how it's going to be. We'll care for her even if there ain't no point. We'll comfort her and stroke her hand and hold her in the darkness when lordly high-ups like you have moved on and forgotten about her. We'll make sure she gets a decent burial when her time comes, and if the powers have any mercy -- which they clear as clarion don't -- they'll make sure her time comes sooner than later. We'll even pay for the Dusties to show her respects.

We'll do it because there ain't no point. Because we're all she's got.

...

Well, there ya go cutter. You've seen what there is to see. Be quick: what now?

Fear?

You want to know what I fear?

...no you don't.

No?

You're sure?

Well then.

I don't fear no injury, ya berk. Being a cripple? I can live with that. I ain't afraid of no balors nor pit fiends nor bug-eyed lothy puppetmasters, nor the Blood War and all the fiends besides. What do I care about any of that blex? It don't mean nothin'; just a passel of fiends trying to see who's got the biggest sword of all. No, I don't fear none of that. But I'll tell you what wakes up me up screaming of a night.

Take a good look around. Observe the broken, the battered, the beaten. Breathe deep. Enjoy the human waste, the disinfectants that never quite do the job, the bitter herbs that purge the body but never quite heal the scars in the soul. Listen carefully. Hear the screams, the stutters, the silences.

Drink deep of the cup of mortal misery.

Then ask yourself: what if the multiverse had a point? What if all this were part of the multiverse's purpose?

You're laughing. Go into Serina's cell. Look at the marks on her inner thighs. Laugh at her, if you dare.

You're not laughing any more. Good. Shows you're beginning to understand.

Everyone in here has been broken in ways you'll never understand. They're just the tip, though, of the anguish that waits outside these walls. Work our Soup Kitchens for a while, cutter. Give scraps to the destitute, knowing full well that all you're doing is keeping them alive to suffer for another day. Extend your hand once, a dozen, a thousand times to the weak and the unfortunate only to have it slapped down or spat upon. Give an irreplaceable portion of your life to those who will squander it with ineptitude or greed. And over and over and over, from now until eternity, know that it will never be enough; watch helplessly as the innocent get mangled and destroyed despite all your best efforts; weep silent tears for the suffering and the loss.

Can you possibly imagine a purpose that could justify this?

I can.

And it terrifies me beyond all reason, and all madness too.

Some believe the multiverse is just a joke at our expense, and there's naught to do but laugh. Not I. I don't think it's a joke. I don't think it's anything. Because if I don't -- because if for one solitary second I believe that these poor tortured barmies are part of some grand multiversal plan -- my mind will crack and I'll scream myself into oblivion. I'll be as broken and useless as the rest of the poor bastards in here.

And then, who will look after us?

-- Excerpts from a conversation with Nyssa Kindheart, warden and Caretaker at the Gatehouse

Anarch's picture
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Of Fear

Hmmmm... now I want to tackle the Godsmen, if only to get the Bleaker taste out of my mouth Puzzled

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That was a great take on the Bleakers and fear Anarch Laughing out loud
Can't wait to see what you will do with th e Godsmen next.

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'OpheliaWhispers' wrote:
That was a great take on the Bleakers and fear Anarch

Agreed. You make a fine point, even though it's a roundabout way of getting to it. Their bleakness as a sanctuary, I like the idea.

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One chilling line, delivered like a needle within a pile of clothes. Search through it and suddenly get stung.

I like it a lot Smiling.

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