War of the Words

Wizardry. The art of words is but magic unleashed from the tongues of man. They bend the world around them and twist fate to their whims. Magical incantations of which there is no written code yet those who perform their words with the greatest art are those with the greatest power.

A simple score of words can move the mightiest of mountains if fashioned with enough care. The fluid motion of a sentence can still the most torrential waters. There is no end to the power of the tongue and no sword can fight against it. If a tongue be set ablaze, then there are no waters that can quench it. If a tongue bring forth streams of water, then there is no fire that might parch it. Only the spells of one can affect the other and those without the skill or desire become consumers of such spells as cross their ears.

The battlegrounds are now strewn with the bodies of men. Rivers of fire ebb and flow through the air as if they belonged. Fires burn and smolder and the world is naught but ashes and rubble. The dead roam the streets in search of water hoping that they might be first to consume it with fire from their mouths. The others cheer and laugh at the fate of the drink and the others spout flame to ensure no morsel remains.

There exists a people amongst the dead who carry on their lives in misery. Slaves. They do little more than the bidding of the most powerful wizards of fire and attempt to avoid the breath of the consumers. Occasionally they attempt to fight but their words are as artless as a grain of sand on the beach. Their drool never reaches the ground. Shamed and fearful of their own death, they forget they ever tried and continue in their work.

Every now and then a voice stands out. Often a distant cry from the past. The liquid gold pours over the souls of the living and ignites the passions within them. They see a glimmer of hope and they stand up tall. This time they will not fail. This time will be different. This time they will try until they win or they die. They will learn to fashion their words to summon a tsunami of immense height to quench the fire and dust of the world and to bring life to the soulless consumers of fire.

But each man stands alone and knows not that other men exist. He strives in vain to shape his tongue and to learn a language he's never heard. Like a child may see a rock yet not know to call it "rock." He can only speak what he knows and he only knows what he's been taught. The would-be apprentice of water speaks only words of fire mingled with his own saliva and produces naught but smoke.

The striving apprentices moan and cry in their sleep pleading for guidance to come. Ironically, the consuming dead find such souls afflicted and cursed. Is there no one skilled in the art of words who knows the language of drink? Is there no one left to teach the words that could end this reign of fire? Where might the wizards be whose hats are white as snow? Where are the confident souls to balance out the war and to regain the lost ground? Perhaps the skill is lost--perhaps the language dead. Then must arise a man to recreate such words as flow the springs of life.

Alas, my soul is weak. I mustn't try as I fear to fail again. I become as a consumer yet find nothing suitable to eat. I behave as one who is dead yet continue to die as I live. I fear to become as one of them yet I hate the continual sting of death and the taunting of my soul. To live a life of death or to feel death daily in life; is one better off than the other? Should man have such a choice to make? My next attempt at life might very well make the choice for me. Yet if I fail but do not die, it hurts all the more than if I hadn't tried at all. And so is my third option: to strive for life with chance to live yet exponential sorrow for the likely failure.

Is there not another wizard to take a stand? Is there not someone stronger to learn the ways? Or does it fall to me to learn as I struggle to keep myself in tact? The least eloquent consumer of fire breaks me to pieces with the utterances of a child. Must it really fall on my shoulders to derive an unknown tongue? I fear for my death so much so that I fear striving for life. And as I war within myself I become all the more fragile to the babes of death that babble out fire in repetitious groans and utterings.

Thoughtless words without skill nor art are too quick for my mind to process. My tongue swells up, my mouth seals shut, and my legs shake in fear. Before I can form a single word, the fire has already won. I curse myself at my lack of strength. The mere infant turns and crawls away with giggles while I stand helpless in a furnace that I helped fuel for myself. Must I really try again? Is there no one else? There must be someone else; to think otherwise I must be a vain fool. No one as weak as me could possibly hope to save another. I sit, smoldering in my self-made fire... I never did like the cold...