dip your brain in medicine.

Quote: With newness came flourish, blooming and spreading; a joyous disease, spring was, to most. Winter had left him trembling and dancing personally with death. Sweetened scents and air twisted around the rogue's lungs and mentality, but debris remained. It was his first winter in a harsher place, and as aforementioned, he did not handle it all too well. He could recall it, the skeletal fingers and tendrils of frost, of comforting coldness -- deceiving, and hungry.



Perhaps he was foolish to still be grateful for his life after all these years and experiences; perhaps he was foolish to be afraid of giving way to something beyond his control. If so, he'd rather fancy himself a fool. Perhaps the creatures who had left scars upon the land were also foolhardy and guided by a universal desire to indeed, make a mark; due to death's unforeseen intentions, they, the now-dead civilization, tried to mark themselves desperately and uncontrollably. As Laurier gazed upon the patterns embracing the walls of the cave, he figured they had succeeded in incompletely dying, despite having their supposed names and culture perished.



At what cost is that, he wondered and had always wondered how far he would have to go if he built a desire to last in such a way, and to further discover knowledge. Surely his mortality would completely collapse upon him one day -- pardon, it nearly has -- but there will always be rather convincing proof that it was not merely luck that he had survived the collapse of his culture. Although, everything does tend to have a dash of luck to it, doesn't it?



The caverns were forlorn, yes, and enigmatic, yes, but they also had a refreshing atmosphere to them, and the histories encased in the patterns and drawings seemed to bounce off the walls. However, such histories were silent and invasive, but the mere presence encouraged thought, and escapism. Laurier walked, -- no, more-so he was pulled along by the currents and the massive artistry. Visionaries, were they? Not all of them, likely. It was here that prompted him to ink thoughts of ?fate?.



Seers would always teach, back where he was raised, that fate was pre-determinded and all branches were already mapped out, and ultimately, already happened...that, there was an invisible duplicate of every one of ?you? in past and future, and you were cursed or blessed to follow it. They did not, however, speak it as if it was the plan of the Mother, but only that She could tap into ?your? path and She was the only one whom held the capability of changing it. Therefore, they always said, Hargreaveson, you should try your best to spread her ideals and win her favour. Perhaps such experiences were why he had grown to distrust anyone who held the belief that fate was mostly predetermined.



Laurier had always wanted to believe that it was different from that, that new branches were made with every decision one would make in their life, constant altering and altering which made Lady Luck and Death quite enthused, and Mother, too. Perhaps the greater deities and lesser deities played games where they interfered randomly to seem what occurred. Of course, this all implied that he still gave in to such beliefs; they had always been difficult to merely brush off. Still, Laurier enjoyed the vision of those billions of duplicates that were on a different plane of existence that what was reality.



He wondered if the creatures who left marks everywhere and drew their visions in caves could tap into that theoretic ?plane of existence?, or that they wished they did. Of course, some seers were deemed capable of tapping into it, perhaps such seers were inspired by these creatures. Whether or not it was true was impossible to proof and disproof, as it was something someone believed with their being and not their 'mind'. Laurier preferred not to believe, and yet he has and would likely in the future, as he found beliefs yet more shackles to add to someone's mind. Clarity, he longed for, despite hardly reaching a state of clarity he desired.



If only his own memories were as easily accessed as visual symbols, and not triggered by sometimes simplistic and nearly unpredictable occurrences. So, he sat, inhaled and exhaled the energy, feeling like a madman.