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[Dzivah] ((I've moved!))

(( Thanks to my good friend Paul/Drek'tal, I was made aware that there are people who used to read this other than close friends, and they aren't aware that the blog has moved!

You can find dzivah's adventures in full at here new blog: clicky!

Likely will not be updating the LJ any more, given that I have become dissatisfied with the spam protection options of livejournal for the last few years. So please check out the new link! ))

[ Dzivah ] Waking whispers.

Time passes easily, without the reluctance that it would have in more trying times. My duties have been disharged, as I have been deemed unfit for performance due to my failing health. With little choice but to live off of a meagre stipend until I either die or find further work, I became relegated to the Trollish slums demarcated by our kindly Orcish masters here in Orgrimmar.

What a sick fucking joke.

The opinion that I should accept this foul circumstance is beyond my comprehension. It isn't reasonable to me. Even in Dalaran, where I was a curious oddity, I was entitled to a bed, adequate warmth, and privacy. Here, it is different. This is the Horde to which our people 'belong'.

Ohiska and I greet one another in the early hours, wandering aimlessly through the streets to escape the heat and the squalor. He is less open about his frustration, though I can tell that being here incenses him greatly. Outside of the tribe, outside of an occupation, we have come across the sad truth of our people's diaspora. We are homeless here, and even worse, I find myself no better off swathed in make-believe 'freedom' then when I was a slave.

After seeing little sister Lily'na and finding her in good health but poor outlook, I began to ruminate. Eventually this cost me much sleep. For nearly fourteen days I have slept only briefly. My exhausted ears ring loudly, and my eyesight is blurred to the point where only the faces of my close circle are discernable. All else is a smoky haze through which I navigate, half awake. And in this time, the visions come.

At first I took this to be a sign of sleep deprivation. I tried the usual remedies, and sought healing practitioners. I even resorted to the use of a general noticeboard.

No respite from this strange malady comes, however, and so Ohiska has entreated me to seek an answer away from the city. To this end, he painted a rush'ka, and adorned it painstakingly in the images of Damballah and the raptor. He thought it best that I have a reference to the Loa who has favored me previously, though I understand he was reluctant to paint such an effigy on a tool designed to aid me.

And so it has been three days that I sit here, days away from Orgrimmar, under the shade of the palms of the Echo Isles. My writing hand is shaky, my vision is poor. But I shall take no serious effort to sleep, nor return, until the answer to my question comes.

That question?

What be my purpose now?

[ Dzivah ] Rehabilitation.

I didn't think I deserved to live at all. If Ohiska had not found me, I'd be dead. I'd spent my last few bursts of fire trying to extinguish anything that came close to trying to help me.

I don't remember how long I was in Booty Bay for. I lay in a cot, depleted of my will to go on, for some time. At some points I was spoon fed, quite literally, by Brother Ohiska. I didn't think I could get any lower than to have so weak and small a male of our kind be the one to care for me.

Nursed back to my full health, I'm feeling very sober. In many more ways than the obvious; the intoxication of the last few months had left me unable to think clearly, but now I see. I was meant to live. I was not meant to die, even if I have always believed that my life's end shall come at my own hands.

I shall return to Orgrimmar tomorrow.

[ Dzivah ] Chasing the steel.

Work is scarce in Booty Bay, and I fear I'll take to petty thievery again to live the life I've become accustomed to.

Pride dictates I shouldn't turn to my old brethren, but a strange compulsion is driving me to seek out Brother Ohiska. It's as though the fates are conspiring to end me of my predilection for bad behaviour.

The entry seems to devolve into a stream of unintelligible curse words, then a break:

I sometimes wish he had killed me.

[Dzivah] In the darkness with you.

The tribe has dispersed. I suppose I didn't see the signs because I never cared one way or another. Senses heightened elsewhere led to distraction.

I'll settle in Orgrimmar for now. I won't return to Sen'jin, nor the Undercity. Time for a fresh start.

It wasn't pertinent to involve myself in the inner workings of the tribe. For all its interesting characters and the communal safety it offered, it still represented a political system of dominance and repression that I have come to loathe in our culture; the justification of feminine subjugation with the need to propel the race forward in number.

Bah, I say.

Drek'tal (mercifully) gone, the tribe (mercifully) in no position to lay claim to my (unbeknownst to them) lack of reproductive organs. I can get about with the business of sorting out my life once more.

I am truly autonomous now.

[ Dzivah ] Freedom.

I don't even care any more. And that is the greatest freedom: the freedom from one's imperiled emotions.

When apathy kicks in, you have not lost. Not in my opinion. When you no longer care for them, it is they who have lost, not you. You have conquered.

The greatest tragedy for him is to become completely insignificant to me.

I pity him now.

Gift art by Ocean.

[ Dzivah ] Hearts are idle.

If you seek to pay for your transgressions in my blood, and not your own, then is there not a fundamental flaw in your methods? Apologies have become pointless, vapid, hollow expressions employed merely so that one may continue to garner favor in a one-sided relationship. This is how it has come to devolve between Drek'tal and I.

I cannot tolerate myself any longer if I utter the words 'I forgive you'. It has become as meaningless as when he says 'I am sorry'. The Primal is never sorry. The Primal makes no apologies for anything that he has ever done. So why should he start now?

He tears the heart out of our meal and swallows it without thinking. When I protest to his selfish act, he retorts. 'My kill, my right.' Truly, this is his logic for each and every willful act. It is his right to do something, simply because he sets the rules himself.

And what of my rights, then? To my autonomy, my freedom, the entitlement I feel to be respected by a mate who is my equal?

He has torn out my heart. He thinks he has the right to hold it, still beating, in his palm, and savor my agony before he devours it whole. To this, he will never be sorry. He will never convince me that he is anything but willfully disrespectful of me.

I do not owe him anything at all. Idle heart, no longer beating, come back to me. You shall start to beat once this mon is gone forever.

[ Dzivah ] Can't wash it out.

Sometimes a gift isn't necessarily a generous one.

It's sometimes just an oversight from someone who is ludicrously high.

If I ever wash this out of my system, I'll be sure to tattoo the following words to my wrist.


[ Dzivah ] Doomed.

After every great burn, I die. I die and I die.

But before I burn away forever, I shall remember these strange yet tender moments. These rare feelings. The camaraderie I have never experienced before.

The Sandfury was the first. She helped me to change my mind, and helped me to realize that my judgments had been too hasty. Khi'jazi. Even whispering her name brings me a little peace. I remember how boldly the woman stepped to me in Durotar, insisting that it was her duty to feed me. Me! Nobody had ever thought it their duty to give Dzivah a great kindness! And yet she approached me, one of the solitary and most unliked of all creatures, and did not merely ask me, for asking if I wish something would have been far too subservient a gesture. No. She told me! Told me that if I was hungry, it was her duty to remedy that.

Perplexed and amused by the strangeness of Tribal life and customs on account of being separated from it for so long, I thought to prompt her further for more words. She offered very little. And truth be told, I grew to like her more because of this. For Khi'jazi's remarkable talent is to only say something when it is poignant and worthy of an utterance.

Khi'jazi's presence must have rubbed my mate the wrong way. Or perhaps it is merely Drek'tal's inability to suffer deference to the wisdom of another. I do not know. But Khi'jazi incited his ire and I found myself within a situation I'd never been in before: in between a 'friend' and a 'lover'. After the initial novelty of this had worn off, I became vexed. I chided the Primal, but he was unwavering. I even stooped to pleading.
Ah, but does he listen? Never. Mercifully, Khi'jazi is as sensible and shrewd as I try to be. Seeing that the Primal is unequivocally stubborn, she sought to remedy our situation by way of a passive gesture to curry favor with Drek'tal.

Now, Dzivah cannot be sure that she has interpreted these gestures correctly. I am forever stumped by the Primal and his odd ways, but where we do not see eye to eye, Drek'tal has afforded me great respect in leaving me to 'my ways', and in turn, I leave him to his. Yet seeing another woman rub against my mate in an act of submission confuses me. Is this what I am to do? Is this what pleases the Primal?

At camp the next day, a single utterance tossed my world about. "I do not know what to make of Khi'jazi", he said. I became confused and irate. I initially interpreted this as the Primal expressing misgivings about her actions. I began to fret that he had sniffed out a ruse. I protested. 'Dzivah has had very few pleasurable experiences in her life such as the ability to genuinely trust another woman. Please do not rob her of this pleasure so quickly, Primal.' But Drek'tal only shook his head. When he tried to elucidate on the matter, I became even more lost. His words were empty and his furrowed brow and stiff posture said too much. I'm in danger of him realizing just how ill-equipped I am for mateship.

Several days later, after we'd celebrated another successful hunt together, I thought it was worthy an occasion to try and show him my affection. So I clamped my hands down upon him and buried my head into his chest. I felt nothing. I looked up. His face mirrored mine. I apologized.

"Forgive me. I am not capable of expressing my affection easily, even at the best of times."

He nodded flatly and agreed that he too suffered this problem. But he feels something tender and warm from another, where I leave him cold and wanting. That much is evident. Just as it is becoming evident that my constant need to be sated by flame is compelling me to commit more dangerous and far riskier acts than before.

Are we hurtling toward a dangerous climax?

[ Dzivah ] Please sto-

A page is torn from the book, the ink still fresh from a few hours prior: Dzivah has been writing in her sleep, remarkably legibly, and is anxious upon waking to find these words. She tucks the page into a binding on her staff with the purpose of burning it later.

Why? Why do you persist? You see nothing and yet see everything. Even with eyes given away, gifted to Hethiss, I cannot escape your sightless gaze.

First the fire, and then - no! The convulsions, the stupor, the self-control perishing in a languid, slow death. I still smell the smoke mixed in with the blood. I recall the way my skin smelled when I fled. I will never get the smell out. THE SMELL!

And now? Inside. Going deeper. Drawing circles with your fingers and I am too late to spy the why - the why?! You trap me with voodoo; beguile me with your own manner of trickery. Invoke my own memories. You see nothing and now see into my very head. Every painful thought. Father. Sister. Everything that makes Dzivah what she is. When I return from irreality you are unapologetic. Your joy is in watching me squirm.

Inside. All lost. The sanctity of my mind is where I hid as a child. Now this sanctum is breached, too; there is no solid space to lean on or shelter under. You'd take them all from me. Rape my body! Flesh is a useless prison! But my mind...please, no...

The stupidest thing I have ever done was give you my blood.

In order to free myself from you,

I must

drain it all