Stories: by Irene Arianwyn, Third of the Relinquished
I (Clare) will just mention a little something before you read what Irene has written. Irene is..... well, she is from a fantasy realm that as of yet has no name, is ruled by the Lord and Lady Morlan.... I think and she (Irene) is the daughter of Aurelia (Aw-REEL-ee-uh) and Farnear, though not their true daughter. The following was written by her after a long time of studying stories. And of course she is real! I made her up and so she exists and is real, don't tell me she is not, if you do, I shall just have to disagree. And there is also a great chance you will have mostly no idea about what Irene is talking about, I don't blame you, I don't understand it entirely either. I warn you though while you read such things as are written in Irene's world (which as of yet I have not found its name) watch out for things that may come through.... such as Twargs, or even Unicorns.
Stories: by Irene Arianwyn, Third of the Relinquished
There is something about stories that allows them to move unlike any other matter. It could be just because of what they are; the telling of things that happened elsewhere. That too is how they begin. The story floats in little fragments through the being of matter and some people have the power to catch those little fragments, fragments are easy to catch. Fragments are normally all that is caught but some people can catch more than that. They are those we call writers. At times the writers struggle to pin down the story. Some do it better than others. Only a few writers can actually see the true story in its true light. Often things are lost in the translation, lost in the weaving, but occasionally comes one writer who has the power and skill to catch a story whole, sometimes years are needed to accomplish a deed like this, as well as the greatest of skill.
Stories are flighty things, but as I said before they move like nothing else can. They are things that pass through places. They go from their own place to another by ways we cannot understand. Other things, even people, do this at times but it happens very seldom. Sometimes when life becomes too dangerous for a species in one place it becomes easier for them to move. But the stories - those that are caught and woven into books - themselves become like doors. Through them we glimpse the places the story has travelled from, the clarity depending on how well the writer caught it.
Stories can be twisted though. Writers without the greater skills can misinterpret the scraps they catch. A story is most elusive. One of the worst things, though, is when the writer can’t tell the stories apart and they get mixed.
Why do we chase stories? Well it can be to find those doors. Or because the chase is such fun, some people chase animals to kill or catch or just for the pure joy of it. So do the writers, we chase to catch the story, to find the door, to capture is joy, but care must be taken that they are not killed. A dead story can be worse than no story; even a lost story is preferable.
Why do we chase stories? Well it can be to find those doors. Or because the chase is such fun, some people chase animals to kill or catch or just for the pure joy of it. So do the writers, we chase to catch the story, to find the door, to capture is joy, but care must be taken that they are not killed. A dead story can be worse than no story; even a lost story is preferable.
Then there are the untold stories, now, we only have little hints of them. Hints where they lock in with other stories. We glimpse fragments from the past of other worlds. Stories have a way of intertwining with others. Maybe one day they will be caught, woven and pinned down, but until then, they are wonderfully entrancing and moving in their mystery.
Stories drift further into this world when water falls, or flows fast. This explains the phenomenon of why writers often glimpse so many story fragments while sitting by streams or washing themselves with water. The difficulty then is that it is excruciating trying to pin the fragments down afterwards, and even to remember all of them. One must be even more talented to hold a story in one’s head, mostly that gift has been lost, but it still exists, in small amounts. No longer do we have bards and great wandering story tellers who have a plethora of them pinned down and together in their heads. We do have books though. Books have the advantage that they do not die, and anyone can hold and see into the worlds through them.
Stories are easier to grasp when we are almost in them. That time comes when we are closer to a door, of some description. As we are, just before we enter the realm of dreams. Writers especially, but even normal people find fragments of thoughts and other things easily grasped in that time before we fall into what we call sleep and dreams. This really is just another door which allows our mind and a semblance of our bodies to enter, for a short time.
Writing is a gift a power, use it as you will, but there are consequences. Writing can change the way we think, it can change what a person values. Stories can change a generation, and they change the world.
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