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There's something wonderful and terrible about a blank page. It's got all that wonderful emptyness, like a great promise that's just waiting to be fulfilled. Ah, infinite possebility from simple nothingness.
But, look what happens the moment you stop to jot something down: the endlessness collapses and the finite emerges with every mark on the page and every stroke of your pen. After a minute or two of writing, you look down and instead of the brilliant magnum opus you expect to see, there's only a bit of triffling maunder, an amphigory if you're lucky.

I'm looking now at the Book of Obsidia, and its pages that were once filled to the brim with arcana obscura, bits of prophecy, and recipes for bbq chicken, have now gone bone ivory blank. Even that layer of sickly green patina is gone now and the end result is the Obsidian Order went out with a whimper. A consolation, I suppose, could be that the Alliance has faded away as well; it seems whatever forces that brought us clashing together have lost interest, moved onto bigger and better things, maybe even gone to work their manipulations in other clans, who knows.

I thought briefly about changing careers and become a professional wrestler. It didn't go so well...at all...ouch. I'll leave the career changes to the driven like Terrance. Besides, there's still the matter of getting the ol' doppelganger some conciousness, and for that I am grateful I took good notes from Obsidia's Book.

Posted by Rowane de'Dannan on Tuesday, September 26, 2006 at 9:00 PM | Permalink