Vogel Cordelia

Elf Mage

Description:

Vogel.jpg

Bio:
You
can’t
play
outside
today,
Little
Bird.
whispers
of
thralls,
whispers
alone
and
no
more,
nothing
at
all
to
fear,
I’m
not
afraid,
how
could
I
be,
what
have
I
ever
seen
to
know
fear,
what
have
I
ever
seen
to
know
pain,
to
know
cheer,
this
youthful
pleasureland
being
my
prison,
every
child’s
want
but
yet
how
unfair
it
is,
how
oppressive
and
tyrannical,
this
playroom
and
this
regal
bed,
silken
and
sumptuous
and
soft
and
shackling
me
to
the
polished
stone
floors,
licked
clean
by
every
manner
of
servant
and
maid,
waited
upon,
dressed
and
directed,
but
for
who
to
see,
who
would
look
upon
poor
Vogel,
even
I,
what
have
I
to
gain
from
the
looking
glass,
what
is
a
person
if
not
actualized
in
the
eyes
of
others,
what
and
why
is
a
little
girl,
what
and
why
is
a
Little
Bird
Precious,
delicate
one,
sweet
sweet
daughter
and
light
of
my
life,
more
beautiful
than
all
the
blooms
of
the
vale,
skin
as
glassy
as
The
Singing
Waters,
lay
down
your
brushed
and
braided
hair,
sleep
tightly,
far
away
from
phaerimm
and
thrall,
full
of
magic
and
light,
dreaming
of
faraway
lands
and
animals,
your
very
own
cooshee
perhaps,
someday,
someday
you’ll
travel
the
world,
a
fine
noble
wife,
but
for
now
sleep,
travel
only
in
dreams,
my
loveliest
Little
Bird,
for
the
worst
is
yet
to
come.
first
the
confines
of
my
walls,
now
the
Shadowshell
envelopes
everything,
the
all-­‐
protective
darkness,
on
our
side
so
they
say,
but
if
that
is
so,
if
our
salvation
is
truly
to
be
found
in
blackest
magic,
lack
of
light,
then
why
does
it
remind
me
of
my
home,
the
shuttered
windows
and
garden
curfews,
the
deep
insides
of
my
toybox,
crawl
inside
sometimes,
just
to
shut
everything
out,
give
the
tyrants
a
scare,
or
pick
a
new
bureau
to
hide
in,
searching
for
hours
without
while
I
search
within,
the
pitter
patter
of
feet
giving
me
a
start,
bringing
me
back
into
reality,
the
moment,
laughter
bubbling
forth,
the
only
sort
of
joke
I
can
play
with
the
audience
at
my
disposal,
I
was
never
much
of
a
humorist
anyway,
frivolous
books
those
I
suppose
anything
is
possible
in
darkness,
imagination,
victory
and
defeat,
possibly
the
answer
for
our
wounded
city,
the
end
of
the
lurking
terrors
and
bogeymen
that
keep
me
locked
away,
but
are
they
too
far
gone,
my
parents?
They
are
so
very
clever
and
inventive
and
there
is
a
whole
world
of
dangers
to
draw
upon.
So
I’ve
read.
the
horror
of
imprisonment,
the
horror
of
playing
host
to
a
variety
of
squirming
grubs
who
am
I
to
decide
which
is
worse
yet
I
want
the
right
to
arrive
at
an
indecision
all
my
own
Don’t
ever
talk
like
that,
Vogel.
If
you
only
knew
a
mother’s
worry…
and
some
day
you
will
know…
then
you’ll
understand
me…
but
you’re
not
ready
for
the
world
of
men…
and
you
never
will
be
if
you
talk
like
that!
No
man
would
treasure
such
a
pessimist!
You
must
brighten
up,
Little
Bird…
look
around
you…
what
else
do
you
want?
You
talk
and
talk
but
truly
what
else
could
it
be?
The
finest
food
and
robes,
endless
chests
of
toys,
and
safety,
Vogel,
safety
my
dear
Little
Bird,
you
haven’t
seen
what
they’re
truly
like…
what
your
father
has
fought…
and
if
we
have
to
give
our
lives
to
ensure
it,
lock
this
tower
and
smelt
the
key,
we
will
gladly
do
so…
and
whisper
our
love
with
our
dying
breaths.
What
is
the
nature
of
a
woman?
Cheekbones,
collarbones,
breasts,
abdomen,
vulva,
the
legs
of
bardic
legend,
we
know
this.
What
is
the
nature
of
a
man?
Unclear.
Swords
and
sorcery,
songs
and
salubrious
carousing.
Hogwash.
Is
a
man
like
a
book?
Never.
Is
a
woman?
Generally?
We
doubt
this.
We
know
this
doubt.
Is
a
Bird?
Clearly.
You
are
what
you
consume.
fear,
knowledge,
insecurity,
practical
magic,
small
matters
of
woodworking,
envy,
lust,
not
lust
but
the
lust
for
it,
jealousy,
fear
and
abuse,
cooking
but
not
cleaning,
always
thought
the
two
were
linked,
sewing,
weaving,
cobbling,
night
terrors
and
paralysis,
just
what
is
sex
and
how
does
it
differ
from
a
phaerimm’s
impregnation,
whispers
around
a
corner,
a
corridor,
a
column,
whispers
of
Little
Birds
and
their
peculiarities,
fragility
and
a
glasslike
psyche,
burning,
burning
at
the
center
of
a
father
beibhinn
upon
thy
breast
were
found
a
great
many
profundities
both
comforts
and
disquieting
truths
as
valuable
as
the
hand
and
heart
what
pressured
them
to
pass
and
it
is
in
a
lonelier
world
that
I
now
lie
catatonic
and
collapsed
a
bitter
heap
of
tangled
limbs
and
dubious
philosophy
the
inevitable
product
of
a
loveless
design
valuing
self
over
substance
for
clarity
is
a
dead
reverie
and
passion
follows
close
behind
running
rightways
and
edgeways
at
a
tremendous
pace
from
the
sick
emergent
nationalism
of
false
prophets
like
you
yet
I
long
and
lust
and
love
after
your
memory
if
not
your
tangible
totality
refusing
to
give
into
those
rational
pockets
I
possess
telling
me
I
can
feel
happiness
once
again
with
but
a
little
effort
and
scrupulous
self-­‐sacrifice
down
these
long
and
tiresome
years
that
knowledge
I
possess
primitively
but
cannot
actualize
for
your
influence
you
are
the
malicious
unseated
monarch
and
I
am
your
acrid
legacy
you
can
cover
a
thousand
pages
with
your
scrawl,
Little
Bird,
for
all
the
good
it
will
do
you
It
would
and
will.
I
could
fill
another
library
over
and
again
given
enough
time
and
a
cessation
of
appetite.
When
your
mind
moves
at
my
speed,
it
is
not
much
more
difficult
to
write
than
to
read.
Ah!
How
I
love
my
books!
And
to
be
paid
to
mind
them.
The
war
is
over,
the
beast
is
dead,
the
childhood
locked
up
in
a
box,
tightly
now
and
paces
away,
life
begins
anew.
The
smell
of
them,
you
see.
All
about,
new
bindings
and
glue,
old
nearly
rotted
pages
and
the
magic
that
restores
them.
The
guards
against
the
Knaves.
Handsome
I
suppose,
if
such
a
thing
were
possible.
What
a
curiosity,
handsome.
Beauty
is
much
more
easily
understood,
brooks
and
beams,
the
call
of
a
riverbird,
kittens
stalking
through
the
snow,
black
type
on
an
eggshell
page.
Quantifiable
almost,
if
you
are
well-­‐read.
Poetry
by
numbers,
through
the
motions
(though
not
for
me).
Magic
is
not
so
hard,
I
think.
A
method
to
each
madness,
much
like
my
own.
Steps
can
be
broken
down,
retraced,
the
exact
source
identified.
Not
that
it
does
you
any
good
to
rid
yourself
of
the
thing.
But
yes,
magic.
A
good
and
proper
way
to
pass
the
hours
alone;
nighttime
can
be
such
a
terror.
I
question
sleep.
They
let
me
live
in
the
library,
you
see,
saw
I
wanted
it
so.
I
should
never
ride
an
ox
cart
to
work
in
all
my
years.
A
husband,
Little
Bird,
when
will
you
find
a
proper
husband?
Books
are
not
the
companion
for
a
woman…
dusty,
hard,
immutable
things…
think
of
the
elders…
and
your
dear
father…
he
loves
you
so…
wants
to
see
you
smiling
brightly…
and
we
have
the
gown
all
picked
out,
just
like
when
you
were
a
dear
child…
always
our
dear
child,
sweetheart…
And
if
I
fear
everything
else
why
not
should
I
fear
marriage?
This
was
your
own
doing.
What
was
that?
ecclesiastica
I am left weeping by a bridge too far
and arraigned as one white hot failure,
no room possessed to nest
nor nurture any sort of commonality
with that laudable Order,
caps and crepes longly lifted
above in celebrance,
the end of dining days is done.
This is history; the rose has been
a profound truth and temple,
several rooms sharing behaviors
privately, a conspiracy of cats and clues
quietly compounded in the quaking
youth of an Everskan summer.
Better to barter than lead
when the cliff face is sheerest,
my dearest daring daughter
already one victim enough for this
aberration without quota,
storage or signed script.
Pleasantly pluck me from my crumbled surroundings
and wrap me up in heather hair
as northern nymphs were wont to do
during greener growing days
of my naivety and kindness,
then drive a pike into my neck,
jugularis and vertebrae,
rattling rightly
in routed author’s sweet exeunt.
Terrors and tribulations, prose and verse spilled aplenty about the Forever Stone. And for
all its powers, only one attracts me properly. It is the means to an end. A reason to leave,
close enough that it seems tangible even to my flighty mind. I’ve read the stories, I know
what to bring with me. An adventurer has a pack, we know this. A bow, a dagger, light
sundries and comforts for the road, a memento from home. Some untapped power within.
This is a path we understand.
We will be approached by outsiders. Wooed and mugged and lusted after. Nights spent
under bushes, nights spent discerning shapes in the smoldering coals. Constellations to be
recognized in person. Meals to burn and clothes to tear.
Woman, wizard, wyrmslayer, barmaid, whore, painter, poet, runner, acrobat. Lives to be
learned, lives to be led. The power of words is nothing alone. I am the artist as egoist, but
not a malicious one. Is that such a shame to admit? It cannot be better to live with those
desires unrecognized as most wander aimlessly doing. Recognition is not much, but it is
an advantage.
Most people aren’t so intimate with their psychosis.
it is a miracle that I do not yet need spectacles
For all their years reading, the others have not unlocked the mysticism within the scrolls
as I have. Why should I not be the one to test my might? Perhaps there is mettle within
this hollow body of mine. Perhaps there is love and stability.
When one has read as I have, one must eventually make a choice: to live endless stories
through the pages of others or live one story to be scribed on her own.
Farewell sweet library. I chose you for my prison rather than have my prison chosen for
me. But now I should like a chance at death.
vogel, age 21

Vogel Cordelia

Rascals of Elturel TeaLeafWind