Consider the following; is it the perceived intent of an action, that which constitutes its morality, or its eventual outcome? Murder is immoral, supposedly, while mercy is virtuous. Yet, do these distinct shades of black and white remain unchanged when one mercifully spares an evildoer, instead of murdering him? How does society perceive your actions, when their outcome is dissonant to your intentions?
You need not answer; even if you could.
Upon my return, I witnessed a city unchanged, yet unrecognisable. Though it had long shed its skin of stone and marble and mud, its new face bore a striking resemblance to the last. My own house stood no longer. The walls within which I was lovelessly raised, the garden in which my sister would bloody her thumbs on thorned roses, they were swallowed up by the vortex of time. In its place, now, a different house stood. A different family, a different history, written over and erasing mine. Only the gravestone remained.
I saw this society, and I deemed it unjust. I saw its rich, its poor, its slaves and its slavers. I saw its injustice to the oppressed, its negligence to its oppressors. I saw this lordless realm, adrift like a rudderless ship in treacherous waters; picked apart by the foreign invader and the domestic opportunist alike.
And I saw the blade in my hand. And I saw what had to be done.
There never was a shadow of a doubt, when the first blood was spilt, that the murder was deserved; such was the strength of my conviction, the absolute of my belief. The slavemaster dead, his merchandise freed. A malign action. A benign outcome. I should have paid more heed to the rush of pleasure the action caused; even moreso the irrelevance to which the outcome faded.
I did not -have- to carve the man's sins onto him. I did not -have- to leave a feather behind. But I needed to.
The second blood was no different. An injustice corrected. A death deserved. Seized wealth redistributed. The people knew me not; yet they had started to know of Crow. I cared naught for fame nor infamy, for reputation or recognition. I did, however, care for the people themselves.
Much like a craftsman cares for his tools.
By the tenth blood, the reasons had begun to blur. I would never accept it back then, I would never even consider the thought, but the addiction, the need, had latched its toxic claws deep inside me. I could always construct a reason. I could always find a fault. I could always find a victim -or create one. My morals, my ideals, once rigid and set in stone, had now started to whither and rot, to wobble and shift, much like this accursed city I called home.
Step by step, victim by victim, my descent continued, ever deeper, one steady step at a time.
Until I met her. Until the steps gave way to the abyssal chasm beneath.
[Originally written by the player of Crow (Derakoth)]
