Cordir - Ebon Book

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Notes: Back in 1995, I had the pleasure of meeting Paul Hlavacek - Thaygar - in person. He invited me to create a TFC character for the Ebon Hand, his following, which was widely known for its PK, but not so much for its RP. So, I created Cordir, who's name is bastardized Latin for "Heart of Dark." The intent was that she would be a tormented, troubled soul who would express herself through poetry; a bard. Between 1995 and 1997, I wrote just shy two dozen poems on various topics that were published via Note form on TFC. Years later, Tokugawa had the wonderful idea of compiling them into a physical object - a book - which he crafted and gave to me. This is the contents of the book. The poems are NOT in chronological order.

look book
A single, slim volume catches your notice. Bound in black leather, a
strange, moving symbol inscribed upon its cover in orichalcum, this book
is filled with page after page of neatly written poetry on a variety of
topics, from love to loss. Flipping to the inside liner, you read,
"Tokugawa: Enjoy - you're the only one who gets a copy, other than my
sister, Jahiliya. May you guide your charges with the same grace and
wisdom you granted the Trinity as Lord Foolkiller's right hand. May the
Weaver bless and ward you, the Wyld remind you to change and grow and the
Wyrm fill your world with enlightenment. Fondly, Cordir."
Page1: Questions
Page2: The Wheel
Page3: My Three Visions, My Three Dreams
Page4: Footsteps
Page5: Obedience
Page6: The Play's The Thing
Page7: Hunted
Page8: Dichotomy
Page9: Requiem
Page10: Risk (for Keller)
Page11: Strings
Page12: Beginnings (unpublished)
Page13: For Nameless
Page14: Colors
Page15: For Nash
Page16: For Gwyrdain
Page17: Betrayor Or Betrayed?
Page18: The Mirror
Page19: For Myself
Page20: Aspects
Page21: For Deamhan
Page22: All That Is Worth Having Is...


Hidden shapes flirt with the corner of my eye.
Dancing. Gesturing. Seducing.
Shall I follow?
Voices, soft in my ear, whispering of things I cannot know.
Inspiring. Desiring. Commanding.
Shall I listen?
A silken touch, a claw, a hand, touches on my skin.
Enticing. Threatening. Consuming.
Shall I respond?
Tell me, oh please, of these presences Three
That dance and inspire
Demand and desire
Pulling my heart strings
Making my soul sing
They're driving me mad..


Say goodbye to what is
Embrace what-is-not
The Void awaits, hungry
Cast off your fear
Gather your courage and honor
And acknowledge that which is within you.
Forget the common labels of "good" and "evil"
Weigh your own soul on the scale of your mind
And balance that which is within
To that which is without
For the Epoch is over
The Age is turning
And the Sleepers begin to Dream.


Nightly wracked with images that haunt my waking hours.
If dreams are portents, and portents are true,
What meaning can be culled from them
In this day without Muses, no Oracle at Delphi to give wisdom
Listen to my three visions, my three dreams,
and grant me what wisdom you are willing
Arachne amidst her webs
A Norn at her loom
Nevyn Talespinner at his campfire
The World-Serpent coiled about us
The asp in the desert
The dhole dreaming in his cavern
A badger enraged
A shark scenting blood
The Dragon-Turtle seeking its prey
What do they mean, these visions three?
Does no one hear what I hear?
The whispers, the voices calling
Does no one see what I see?
Decay underlying, Chaos waiting to be released
Does no one Dream as I do?


In ancient times, three Great Ones walked.
The world changed in their wake.
The Walkers strode, and as they did,
Civilizations rose and fell,
Peace was waged, and wild wars raged;
Mere ripples from their passage.
For an age and more, the Walkers went
Where their mighty whims directed.
Elemental forces, like wind, like time,
Witnessed but not controlled or guided.
Now Three Walkers sleep and dream,
Thought stories or tall tales.
But as I crept through the Citadel's shattered ruins,
Long since gone to decay and dust
I heard the dim echoes of their footsteps,
The rumble of their dreams,
And knew in my soul,
They'd Walk again.


Trembling and turbulent are my thoughts.
Remembering the years of un-knowing and fear,
I am weak with joy at my impending fate.
Alive in every particle of my being,
Totally accepting of my new path.
Wandering, as the Master bade me, across the land,
I sought wisdom, sought the secret wild places.
Learned the ways of the myriad peoples.
Learned the whispers of the desert, the songs of the wood.
Returning at last to the place of my birth
I kneel at His altar, the die has been cast.
Supplicant, obedient, a tool to be wielded.
Ebon, my goal, Thaygar grant it, at last...

(Inspired by the works of William Shakespeare)
All the Realm's a stage
A mad morality play on unseen boards
Where a cast of characters - jokers all -
Caper wildly, mouthing poorly written lines.
Damned souls, blinding groping about for unattainable Virtue,
Their balances weighed by blood, not goodness.
"Justice" cries the rest of our cast.
"Right the wrongs, slay the slayers!"
Unknowingly, they assume the Wyld's aspect,
Becoming what they fear.
Seeing it within themselves, they try to drown it in a sanguine flood,
Stamping it out in those more honest.
For there can be no happy ending to this tale being played out.
No maid won, no Realm obtained.
Only Death
Only sorrow
Only strife


Cold is the gaze but much colder the heart,
Beating within my foe's breast.
His gaze unwavering, locked into mine
Promising pain and my death.
A bewildering thing, this sudden hate,
For I have committed no crime -
Except for donning the Scarlet Cloak
That `round my soul is entwined.
That scarlet soul gives them reason enough
Judged by of a Virtuous lot
To condemn, and to sentence, to hunted death.
While "good" acts are counted for naught.
My death, chosen freely, a sacred gift,
For my Master, as He bade,
But when life's taken unwilling and sudden,
Then is a farce of that Mystery's made.
My Lord has instructed time and again
The nature of those Ebon serves
So ignorance cannot be truthfully claimed
But still the mad rally-cry's heard
"Kill all the Red-Soul'd, let streets run with blood
Hunt them through night into dawn
Get every last one, and let us spare none,
Until to the last they are gone"
Their bestial hunger, they sate on our flesh
And, to my amaze, they can't see
That in this ravenous hunger for death
They only serve one of the Three.
So when it is time for me to pass on,
'Helped' by the edge of a blade,
I shall die knowing the full grace of Gods,
Whose Aspects never will fade.
So long as one Paladin slays in his rage,
The lesson of Wyld is unlearned,
And I can lie quiet and still in my grave,
Knowing the Triat still served.


Day breaks, gently washing the sky with color.
Birds and beasts wake, and sing melodies of beginnings.
Men rise, and set forth on their tasks, harvesting, trading, making.
The Earth ripens beneath the caress of the Sun,
And the Ocean waters warm, teeming with life.
It is a time of growing, yearning, learning, reaching.
Sun sets, darkness falls. The sky accepts an ebon hue.
Stars emerge, and the luminous eye of the Weaver peers forth
from behind the clouds as She weaves the tapestry of the heavens.
The night-song is heard - a dark orchestra comprised of wind, beast and bird.
It is a time for living, hunting, dying. For prophesy, portents and dreams.
A time for Mystery, the germination of the seed into what will come.
What is day without night? Light without Dark?
What is life without death? Summer without Winter?
What are all these things, but simply parts of the Wheel we all travel?
How can it be that one half of the whole is sinful,
Worthy of abhorrence, eradication, annihilation?
For to destroy a part, is to deny the whole...


Trembling and uncertain, rage and despair intermingling,
I stand at doors now forever barred, totally bereft.
Slowly, the Void in my heart eats away my reason.
Terrible gibbering voices war in my head.
Louder and louder they grow, but still cannot fill the silence
Where once cherished brethren were heard.
A fellowship bound by things deeper than blood, shattered.
My Guide and Guardian lost, I am as an abandoned babe,
Born out of an enfolding fellowship into a sea of strangers.
Forlornly, I pray for a return to that womb,
But my entreaty is heard only by my own ears.
Forsaken, desolate, I contemplate a future of death and misery,
Wandering a Realm filled with contempt and dishonor.
The only thing remaining within me is the desperately held knowledge
That the Triat still sleep within their shrouds of Darkness.
... Perhaps, given time, I can become Their handmaiden,
If the Pattern I Weave with my life is pleasing enough to Them.
... Perhaps I can walk a lonely road, reminding others of Their truth
But trembling on the doorstep of my forever-lost home,
My doubts overwhelm me, my weaknesses surge up and flood me,
And I wonder how I will ever find the strength
To walk an Ebon road, alone...


I stand on the topmost edge of a precipice,
Heart beating fast, mind awhirl in my head.
Before me gapes myriad dangers unknown -
Their inky depths hungry, ready to enfold and devour.
Behind me, the well known paths I have taken -
Comfortable, safe, secure a prison in their own right.
Gazing about, ethereal images dance before me;
A blade, a crypt, a trio of shadows, all beckoning, calling
There is one in that darkness who holds my soul in his hand,
Standing on empty air, telling me to trust.
To dare all, to step off familiar roads
And to go where I have never gone before.
Seeking inward for answers, I find only questions.
My heart - a treasure box, the contents scattered -
years for safety, oblivion, hurt-numbing emptiness.
Yet within it, like Pandora, I find a tiny scrap left,
A dim light in the darkness called hope.
Clutching it to my breast, I fix my heart on my dream,
And step off, into the unknown
Darkness and questions rise up to meet me.
Do I dare dream? And more insanely, follow them?
How can I follow heart and hope, when they're such fragile things?
His voice comes to me, then, as I fall, alone in the shadows,
Giving comfort, enfolding me in his care and compassion.
He tells me to trust, to give and to receive that which I have never known.
What is this madness he speaks? More telling, why do I obey?
Could it be that this lowly caterpillar is finally daring to fly?


Do you see the puppet strings?
Bound around wrist and ankle,
Trailing forlornly through the dusts of memory..

Do you see the prison bars?
Masked behind the altar of my soul,
Securely binding, though I hold the key

Do you see the darkness, the Void?
The despair that lies, awaiting and hungry,
That I carry and nourish within my own breast

We are all puppets of a sort, some acknowledged, some denied,
And, bereft of our Giapetto's, must stand, go, live, do,
Free of strings, free of control if we only have the courage.

We all bear our prisons within our selves.
Locking away compassion, fear, love, truth - all that we cannot face,
With a muttered, "But I can't, mustn't, wouldn't, shouldn't"

We all seduce the Void, the Shadow-Lover, the Darkness,
That grows within, swells, fills, and sweeps bare all before it,
Its only enemy the faint candle of hope, faith, self-determination.

Here is the blade - cut the strings.
Here is the key - unlock the door.
Here is the candle - burn away the shadow.

And join me on the road of self if you dare.

(This work is respectfully dedicated to ExarKun,
who reminded me of the blade, the key, and the candle.)

(Cordir "forgot" this one, which was written and posted during the Week of Chaos)

In times past, my footsteps traced down a scarlet road.
A price paid willingly - I knew the journey undertaken-
And great was my joy to walk it, Bard to my Master.

Then came a Sundering, my Path split from His,
Not by my own choice, but by Others' commands.
Lost, bereft, I stumbled a while, seeking solace

From friends, fellow outcasts, and strangers alike.
A gleaming blade beckoned in the distance, and one
Companion grew closer than all the others.

Plans were made, vows were given.
But then came a second Sundering,
My heart split, soul shattered, hope was lost.

Now, once more, I find myself on a path unknown,
Not of my making, but with the way blocked behind.
And I shiver in the cold wind that blows through me.

Like a Weaver I rage at my honor despoiled,
Like a woman, I weep at the passions denied me,
Like a child I strike out at the hand that would tame me.

But Oathbreaker I am, and a Weaver no longer,
My womanhood despoiled and worth naught at all,
All that is left is a child's futile anger and confusion.

But inside there is something that simply acknowledges
That yet another beginning is upon me, another road to walk
And I sorrow, but take the first step, unknowing, uncaring, alone.


What point living with sundered soul
Riven from that which gives hope and joy
A bleeding, hurt beast trapped within your breast?

What reason for living, for striving
Towards elusive, unreachable Perfection
When all you can do is howl in rage and loss?

What to cling to, what spark of hope
To win through the shadows of half-lies, half-truths
That reach out with talons to drag you down into Hell?

What left... but Humanity... yes, it's there,
Proof being the love lost, soul shattered, hope sparked
For these are to mortals bequeathed, unknown to true demon-kind.

Easier to claim only the Fiend, ignoring the gentler inheritance.
Simpler to turn away from that which pains, shatters, torments,
So... Run if you must. Flee. Hide. Dishonor yourself and her.

Just remember: Someone died to give a child the chance to be human.
To rage, to sorrow, to mourn, to change, to learn, to persevere.
Can you do less for your own love?

(Written with assistance from Nameless & Gwyrdain)

I know the terrors of the light:
The daily battle against great odds,
To keep morals, oaths and self intact;
The responsibility of guarding innocents,
And preparing them for the Realm;
The anguish of holding a loved one's still form,
Bereft of life, a casualty of undeclared war.

I know the horrors of the dark:
The riposte attacks against the fanatic hatred of
Do-Gooders blind in their self-righteousness;
The joy of gathering those who dare to believe
Differently than the hordes of sheep;
The anguish of holding a compatriot's still form,
Bereft of life, a casualty of undeclared war.

I know the pitfalls of the grey:
The weary travails on the long road of Ascension,
Without the support of faith or following;
The task of surviving the middle ground of a
Battle undeclared with no rules of engagement;
The anguish of holding a friend's still form,
Bereft of life, a casualty of undeclared war.

Do you recognize yourself in the words we speak?
Can you see yourself - light, dark, gray?
Can you see, then, those who walk not YOUR path,
But one that is simply... different ... are no less human, real, valuable.
And can you truly say that you are better than they?

(With the kind assistance of Taffron and Polnevdra)

Wisdom is the Way of Nash, brought by Nash's Son
Teaching us His Father's words, until all souls are won

Power is the Way of Nash, lives and blood His due
Darkness is the Conclave's Path, and to that path they're true

Subtle is the Way of Nash, cunning wins His prey
Mystery the Jhereg's trade from which they will not stay

Chaos is the Way of Nash, this the Watchers learn
Ways to send more souls to Him and feast on all they've earned

Knowledge is the Way of Nash, new are those in truth
Chiselhammer's clan prepares a path for those of youth

Honor is the Way of Nash, worship through good deeds
Calls the Fellowship to Him to clarify His needs

Perfect is the Way of Nash sought by all these ways
Shows His face to each in kind a different way to praise

(Note: This work has since been updated to include all Nashite
followings to date.)


Grey eyes, grief eyes
"Grim but content," you say
My hand aches to reach out
To touch
To soothe
But your Path is your own,
I cannot intrude,
I can only share the moments...
Not take what I want, perhaps need...
Solitary soul, cloistered soul,
Dare I, May I,
Walk your road?


A knife in the dark not skill, but the woman's weapon -
A serpent's tongue, a lash of anger and malevolence.
A mockery, a twisting of words offered in love, cast back
Like a player giving lines to a audience needing to hear them.
I tell myself it was for malice's sake,
That there is no honor to it, simply rejoicing
In the pain of one who gives pain to my fellows ..but
There is an echo there.. the barest whisper that tells me
I struck deep into unguarded heart.
Justly deserved if the lies are true,
Justly deserved if the twain were once one.
Justly deserved if. But it cannot be can it?
I couldn't have been no I MUST NOT have been.
Else what have I become? What holds me from madness?
I cannot face that possibility, that whisper.
So tell me absolve me
Was a crime committed?
... or justice served?


In the barrow-deep corners of your soul
What are you?
In the weighing of your acts,
How do you balance?
Is the truth you speak
The one you seek, daily?

Or is it serpent smile
And guile you give your fellow men?
A lying heart hid behind
Sweet lies and false morality,
Clutched firmly to an azure breast,
Paraded forth for all to see?

We all wear masks, facades,
To hide the child within
Barrier away what we cannot face
Or guard dear and deep enough
The fear that screams
From waking dreams inside.

So seek a mirror, if you dare
Declare what you see... no... BE...
Free of the masks, the lies, the strings,
That bind you to the illusion you create
And seek the solitude, silence and peace


I tell myself it matters not, the color of a soul
But instead, the Path that's tread, and the final goal.
I don't complain, I do not mind, when thought to be like those
Whose dark company I keep, whose actions feed the crows.

I tell myself it mattes not, the Liege-Lord that I serve.
I'm Weaver's Chyld and not the Wyld's, that any can observe.
Though the Three whose Path I walked has no Immortal Voice,
To His Perfection all Paths lead and that one was my choice.

I tell myself it matters not, that I have other goals,
Because for me, it cannot be; the Arch-Lich owns my soul.
So wistfully I turn and gaze, 'cross bridges that are burned,
And know the lie that I have lived, and wish I hadn't learned.

(And the sequel....)

I told myself it mattered not, the color of a soul
But instead, the path that's tread, and the final goal
I told myself so many things to keep myself content
But friends three, they aided me; the veil of lies was rent.

In Service Silver I rejoice, Gryphon the lord I serve
Still Weaver's Chyld, not the Wyld's, as any could observe
And though behind, burned bridges lie, to my eternal sorrow
I face the future with some hope and no fear of tomorrow.


Am I?
Ask another, for I cannot answer with my own truth,
Only the labels and epithets given by friends and foes
Bard.... Murderess....Beloved....Witch...
Lost in the titles is the woman, seeking, changing, persevering,
Searching her own soul for the fragments of song that are hers alone
Not melodies or duets sung with others.
Bound by oaths given and broken, the calls of duty and blood,
I find myself ever identified by the will, whims, and obligations of others.
Ever have I been a leaf on the breeze, pushed and pulled,
Thrown this way and that, powerful yet powerless.

But at last, I have learned a trancendent truth, the purpose of my days:
There is a place in the heart, or the soul, or the mind,
Where purpose and action, desires and necessity merge.
A place called Destiny.
I gaze outward at the tapestry of endless possibilities,
Each thread a life, a place, an act, all touching, all interconnecting.
And I wonder, humbled before this intangible glory, if finally, I am home.


I have waited two hundred years for...
the silken caress of pale fingertips
the sweet scent of dark hair
the sudden intoxication of a Kiss

I have waited a millennia for...
the quiet haven of strong arms
the stirring soaring of magics intwined
the flaring rush of blood in my veins

I have waited forever for...

(written on behalf of Alecto, for her lover, ZARA)

The sweetness of your curves beneath mine...
The tangled mystery of your hair...
The honey of your lips, breathing your breath...
The dance of fingertips over yearning flesh...

Releasing all my masks and facades
Being all that I am, unfettered
Falling, sinking, dying a little death in your arms

Freed of all prisons but that of your flesh
My cries rise up, mingling with yours...
The completion of you at my side...

( Back to the main Cordir page / Cordir - Descriptions / Cordir - Help File / Cordir - Immortal History / Cordir - Mortal History / User:Cordir )