Of Rasslain and Selhya - Intro

The Tale of Rasslain and Selhya.


"In here is a tragedy---
art thou player or audience?
Be as it may, the end doth remain:
all go on only toward death.”


Griever danced before the sea of Cyruleia, and Rasslain approached him.

Deep in the dreams of his restless heart, he had seen this scene. Of the Magnificent Beast, the Lord Invincible, waiting for him, dancing for him and him alone. He would approach, and great and powerful wings would surround him, consume his very being in flying colours never named and swift sounds never heard. His very soul enthralled at the touch of such awesome a presence, the gravity that surrounded him pulling him down, down into Dionysian ecstasy but up, up into Apollonian heights, soaring through the air like an eagle, aiming not for the sun but for the very depths of space.

Oh, thou pitiful, thou beautiful one, my sweet Selhya.

It lay  prone on the ground beneath the suspended feet of the dancing god. It appeared like a body of a sleeping girl, yet no life resided beneath it’s bloodless eyelids. No soul to cure it of it’s paleness, to give it title as a human being. Flowers of stark colours bloomed around the pale skin and nodded over her translucent body, as though to cover her nakedness, or to hide her from her upcoming fate.
As Rasslain approached the great god slid to the earth, poised above the shell of his most beloved star, Selhya, the light of her people, dimmed by the ceaseless aeons of death. The dark haired young man sank down upon his knees, and spoke thus:

“Hail Griever, greatest god, my journeys end and final rest. In this body, I bow before thee. Yet my accursed form is of no worth; bowing or dancing, it remains damned. Wilt thou heed the words that would inquire thine ears, even though they comest from the mouth of unknown corruption?”

And in a rush, the four great winds sped from that place and ran crying across the lands, appealing to the gods, pleading for their lives.
“Our Lords” Said their troubled lips. “Our Lords, hearken, it is the time, the final reckoning of the world we adore is here. The whole of our mother cries out against this, and we her daughters knowest this more fully than thou!
“Like a plague will this act spread across her beautiful skin, taking her beauty. Proud trees will fall upon broken ground, broken ground will crumble beneath proud trees. Life will wither until no life is left in the realm. The waters will scream as they dry and dream of a day when they will flow free again. Who are we to tell them the truth? That the world they long to enjoy once more no longer lives?”

But the gods answered not. Nor did they converse with each other, for they all heard it. Their mothers call, their mothers voice beseeching, echoing, drowning as it sank down into the abyss. The twelve turned their heads away from their forsaken brother, Griever, the Ophiuchus, and gazed into the eyes of the earth.

And Griever lowered his maned head to the grey eyes of Rasslain, and his noble mouth asserted on behalf of his ears, that they would listen to his tale.