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Food. Eat. Food. The thoughts echo in the mind, etched instinctively. Hunt. Food. The urges continue. Except, however, they are not in any coherence resembling a known language, for these are the thoughts of a rat. The rat merely knows what it must do at a given time, and does not need to think about thinking in order to accomplish such lofty goals. Gather. Food. The compelling task fuels its desire forward.
The night is out in full array, stars and moon and all of the associated celestial bodies, clear in their wonderment and infinity. Perhaps they know the answers to life's questions. Perhaps they look down upon us, down upon the rat, and scoff at such primitive thoughts. The thoughts that sustain the life and will of a being.
Food. Food. The night holds a tangible silence. A silence that is broken by a faint scratching sound, a sound that, to the sensitive ears of a rat, slices through the night air as a blade through flesh. Danger. Up. Danger.
Up in a tree sits a wood elf, perched comfortably and safely in a branch, her knees close to her chest, a bound book of parchment resting on them. The scratching sounds emanate from her; she is the source of origin, of the danger. The sounds stop, and she looks down. She spies the glowing yellow orbs of the rat many feet below, the moonlight reflecting its illumination off those simple but crystal-clear windows to the soul.
"I wonder," she states.
The rat scurries away, the elf decisively unthreatening to it. Its time is valuable, for it will do many things before dawn. A veritable smorgasbord of food it will discover and devour, completing simply one affirmation of its life's goals. The elf watches the destined individual leave. What would the creature's fate be?
"Hmm." The words hang there, again. Kaseira is hard in thought, and she holds the end of the quill against her lips, tapping it gently. After a few moments, she begins to write steadfastly into the parchment, the neat and flowing script smoothly finding a new home.
One day I may find myself in a city. For what purpose do I have? Of whom do I speak on such purpose? The life long question, to be sure. Of purpose, and meaning. Perhaps I speak for all of us in this. For now, though, it is inconsequential. For now, I find myself in a city. In this city are people, people of every origin, of every walk. These people live here.
Of the others that live here, they will do many things. They may drink of the ale in a tavern. They also may complain of the rat scurrying across its floor. Damnable filth, it may be reckoned. Yes, I believe this is what most would claim. A pest. A nothing. Its life is exependable, meaningless, for to us, its only purpose is as something to be dealt with. Something to be destroyed. A pathetic existence.
To us, it may seem so small. Indeed, it is small. It will seek warmth. Warmth and safety. It will reproduce. It will spend its days searching for food, feasting on the scraps. Scraps from us. Us higher powers. The powers that determine, that mete out life or death to such.
To the dragon that soars the skies, clear over the city, we must look much the same. We scurry about in our daily activities. We seek food, shelter. We seek to reproduce. We are mere pests. We mortals, small and pathetic in our existence. We build cities, we claim lands. But to what avail? Does this hold meaning to those who soar above, looking down, down at us rodents as we meander about searching for our purpose? All of our intricacies, our doings, they are lost to it. We are NOTHING to it. But to us rats, we are everything.
Satisfied, the pen stops moving. It is put away, and the parchment, a page that was once blank, is now full. Satisfied, she sleeps.
A moonlit ray quietly illuminates her.
The night is out in full array, stars and moon and all of the associated celestial bodies, clear in their wonderment and infinity. Perhaps they know the answers to life's questions. Perhaps they look down upon us, down upon the rat, and scoff at such primitive thoughts. The thoughts that sustain the life and will of a being.
Food. Food. The night holds a tangible silence. A silence that is broken by a faint scratching sound, a sound that, to the sensitive ears of a rat, slices through the night air as a blade through flesh. Danger. Up. Danger.
Up in a tree sits a wood elf, perched comfortably and safely in a branch, her knees close to her chest, a bound book of parchment resting on them. The scratching sounds emanate from her; she is the source of origin, of the danger. The sounds stop, and she looks down. She spies the glowing yellow orbs of the rat many feet below, the moonlight reflecting its illumination off those simple but crystal-clear windows to the soul.
"I wonder," she states.
The rat scurries away, the elf decisively unthreatening to it. Its time is valuable, for it will do many things before dawn. A veritable smorgasbord of food it will discover and devour, completing simply one affirmation of its life's goals. The elf watches the destined individual leave. What would the creature's fate be?
"Hmm." The words hang there, again. Kaseira is hard in thought, and she holds the end of the quill against her lips, tapping it gently. After a few moments, she begins to write steadfastly into the parchment, the neat and flowing script smoothly finding a new home.
One day I may find myself in a city. For what purpose do I have? Of whom do I speak on such purpose? The life long question, to be sure. Of purpose, and meaning. Perhaps I speak for all of us in this. For now, though, it is inconsequential. For now, I find myself in a city. In this city are people, people of every origin, of every walk. These people live here.
Of the others that live here, they will do many things. They may drink of the ale in a tavern. They also may complain of the rat scurrying across its floor. Damnable filth, it may be reckoned. Yes, I believe this is what most would claim. A pest. A nothing. Its life is exependable, meaningless, for to us, its only purpose is as something to be dealt with. Something to be destroyed. A pathetic existence.
To us, it may seem so small. Indeed, it is small. It will seek warmth. Warmth and safety. It will reproduce. It will spend its days searching for food, feasting on the scraps. Scraps from us. Us higher powers. The powers that determine, that mete out life or death to such.
To the dragon that soars the skies, clear over the city, we must look much the same. We scurry about in our daily activities. We seek food, shelter. We seek to reproduce. We are mere pests. We mortals, small and pathetic in our existence. We build cities, we claim lands. But to what avail? Does this hold meaning to those who soar above, looking down, down at us rodents as we meander about searching for our purpose? All of our intricacies, our doings, they are lost to it. We are NOTHING to it. But to us rats, we are everything.
Satisfied, the pen stops moving. It is put away, and the parchment, a page that was once blank, is now full. Satisfied, she sleeps.
A moonlit ray quietly illuminates her.