Note

Les « textes à voix » comme leur nom l’indique, trouvent toute leur valeur lorsqu’ils sont parlés, et donc écoutés. Les liaisons, les élisions et leur rythme en général risquent de ne pas être retranscrits correctement par une simple lecture. C’est sans doute paradoxal pour un texte écrit, mais c’est aussi ce qui fait toute la force de la tradition orale et contée.

Description

Un autre petit défi personnel : écrire en vers qui se terminent tous par la rime “-ère”

Terriens, terriennes je vous verse ces quelques vers
Pour avertir quel terrible destin sévère
Verra se terminer la version de notre hémisphère austère.
D’un revers nous flanquons tout par terre,
Sans envergure ni gouvernail, altérant la nature sursitaire,
Et traitant comme balivernes ses avertissements autoritaires.
Seul critère de verdure : le billet vert,
Seule convergence planétaire : le budgétaire.
Et si j’écris ces quelques vers, de Terre
C’est pour chercher quelque part dans l’univers
Quelqu’un d’assez sage pour nous faire taire,
Nous arrêter, avant de tout foutre de travers.

Humanitaires sans-frontière et contestataires
Conversent à couvert dans les documentaires,
Tandis que militaires, terroristes et diamantaires
Déversent leur perversion à découvert.
Le calvaire héréditaire des peuples tributaires
De terrifiants gouvernements totalitaires
Déterminera à terme l’élémentaire critère :
Le monétaire, seule valeur de conversion pour ses dignitaires.
Et si j’écris ces quelques vers, de Terre
C’est pour chercher quelque part dans l’univers
Quelqu’un d’assez sage pour nous faire taire,
Nous arrêter, avant de tout foutre de travers.

Et que dire des réfractaires éternels du progrès planétaire ?
Ces dirigeants dévergondés de nos monastères
Prêchant vertu du fond de leur presbytère.
Convertissant sans vergogne dans leurs baptistères
Une diversité de cul-terreux pervers,
Alors que leur magistère interdit toute pensée pamphlétaire
Par aversion d’un mouvement communautaire
Reléguant les pensées testamentaires au rang de croyances sectaires.
Et si j’écris ces quelques vers, de Terre
C’est pour chercher quelque part dans l’univers
Quelqu’un d’assez sage pour nous faire taire,
Nous arrêter, avant de tout foutre de travers.

À chaque poison sa solution, l’adultère et le maternelle, le commanditaire et le donataire.
Opposons altercation avec conversation, excédentaire à complémentaire,
Enterrement à éternité, et ministère avec paritaire.
Supprimons les malversations avec l’interrogation et le totalitaire avec l’égalitaire.
Confrontons le gangster au vertueux, l’autoritaire au volontaire,
L’interdiction à la subversion, et le parasitaire au libertaire.
Combattons le terrorisme avec consternation, le revolver à coups de caractère,
L’adversité avec détermination et l’austère avec du mystère.
C’est bien beau et cela semble parfait,
Mais moi je n’y crois plus, je suis démotivé.
Alors j’écris ces quelques vers, de Terre
Cherchant quelque part dans l’univers
Quelqu’un d’assez sage pour nous faire taire,
Quelqu’un pour nous servir notre dernier verre.

Anyway, enough of the past, I will have plenty of time to get back into it. Today is what matters, right? Because today I decided I was ready. Ready to learn the tricks of the trade for good, ready to improve, ready to get on my quest, one with a vengeance!

It’s on my way to Northshire Valley, thru Elwynn Forest, that I decided I should write it all in a journal. Crazy girl am I? Well, I do talk to myself, I do have nightmares, and I do kill people, so by your standards, I might fit the profile…
But hey, you have no idea what I have been thru, ok, so don’t judge me. Personally I obviously don’t think I am “crazy”. Paranoiac? Hell yes! Come on, let’s face it, we are surrounded. Scared? All the time. Border line? Sure… And that’s why I decided to write this journal. To keep me grounded, focused on the things to come, not on those that went.
See, that, right there… It was a lie, yeah, I do lie a lot. Sort of a… professional trait if you want. But that’s courtesy really, I mean you wouldn’t want to know the truth anyway.
So when I say “To keep me grounded, focused on the things to come, not on those that went.“ That’s not true. It has everything to do with the things that went.
TEN YEARS!! I’ve prepared myself, TEN FREAKING YEARS!! Oh I always wanted revenge, but I knew I was too young, too frail. So I made myself stronger, better, quicker. I got ride of those sentiments and remorse that were sugar-coating my soul. I prepared myself for the day where I will finally get out of my numerous hideouts and take the road. And that day has come…

Has I walked to Northshire Valley, I could still see your red and yellow eyes inside your green skulls, your fangs pointing out. I could still hear your so called “war scream” when you decapitated my father. Orcs! Filthy monsters, I did not forget you, I did not pardon you, and I will get back at you! One by one if I have to.
What do you think made me hold against the cold, the fatigue, the hunger, the fear? One and only thing: the image of your eyes when I will bend over your body, seeing the last of your breath coming out of your mouth. The delectable moment where you will realize that there is no “war god” waiting for you in the other side, that you will be all alone in the dark despair of your blackened soul for eternity.
Seeing that last glimpse fading out of you, that’s what really made me go on all this time. And now I am in the open. No more caves, no more holes for me. I won’t be a victim anymore; my journey to you begins now.
Laugh all you want, Orcs and horde alike for that matter! I’ll make you smile even wider when my blade will cut you a new mouth, ear to ear style.

I won’t lower myself to your standards, however. I will not kill peasants and lumberjacks, children and families… But you, lieutenants, captains, generals… You, soldiers of my rank, I’ll get, sooner or later you will perish by my blade.

I was lying there, in my own blood. Three arrows in my back, one in my leg. Funny how blood taste like iron, I had noticed it days before, when they started beating me and I got all that blood in my mouth almost all day long. But today it was different; it wasn’t in my mouth, but more in the air, a smell, the iron smell of my own death.

No more pain though, no more torture. I was glad in a way. I couldn’t feel a thing anymore; which is something I had hoped for so many times in the past few days. Peace was coming at last…

The horror was going to end there, in that field. The vision of my family; butchered in front of me by those green monsters was fading, as was those terrible days following the massacre, were I was repeatedly tortured, raped and famished. Yes… Peace at last… I just had to let it go, forget it all, and take the trip to join my loved ones…

And I did… I died that day, in that field. The teenage girl that I was died, her body and her mind broken by the monstrosities she had endured.

That was a long time ago, and today I am still wondering what happened exactly in that field where I died. I mean I do remember waking up against a tree, hurting from the fresh wounds. But I cannot be sure if the incantations I heard were real or just the figment of my imagination. Was I saved by a roaming druid? And if that so, why did he leave before I regain consciousness?

For years I questioned myself of that matter, I do it less now. After all, maybe I wanted to live so badly that I came back, that I crawled under that tree myself, got rid of the arrows piercing my body and lost consciousness for a while, who knows?

One thing for sure, it doesn’t change the fact that a girl died that day, and I, Kyra, was the one who woke up.

Ten years I had to live on my own. Steal what I could from the beasts of the wild, from the streets of the cities, from the wanderers off the roads. Making my own rules, which really was essentially ONE simple rule: Survive at all costs!

Those ten years, and what started it all, made me what I am today: a rogue. No shame, that’s who I am today, I don’t deny it, and I don’t hide it either.

I made my first kill at twelve years old, it was a boar. The beast was going through my stash of berries and apples that had taken me days to get. I grabbed the first thing I could, a dead branch, and I started pounding the beast until it stopped moving and squealing. When it was over, I was covered in blood and sweat… I really did not enjoy it. But, it gave me meat for days… So I did it again, and again…

At fifteen, a wood dweller thought I was pretty – and more if affinity. There was no affinity on my part, but he insisted, so… I treated him like a boar, at least for the clubbing part of it. He wanted to be inside of me so badly that I did give him this satisfaction after all. I bite and swallowed its left piggy during our fight, to distract him before the final blow. I mean, he was twice my size, that’s fair enough right?

Honestly, I prefer boar meat anyway. But hey, if I had been hungry at that time, his corpse might not have ended up rotting in the open for the beasts to feast on…

Note

Durant mes années noires où je n’écrivais pas officiellement, il faut croire que cela me hantait tout de même, car j’ai sombré dans le « Fanfiction » (fictions basées sur un univers dont on est fan). Ce qui suit sont des textes entièrement inspirés de l’univers du jeu de rôles « World of Warcraft ». Simples profiles de personnage, ou journaux intimes d’avatar, il faut y voir un manque que je cherchais à combler. Évidemment si vous n’êtes pas au fait de l’univers de ce jeu, certaines choses vous passeront au dessus de la tête, voir seront franchement longues et sans intérêt, mais bon, quand on joue la transparence, il faut aller jusqu’au bout
Ha! J’oubliais… c’est en anglais dans le texte

Name: Kyra

Race: Human

Class: Rogue

Professions: Mining & Skining

Current Home:
If there is one thing Kyra does not have, it’s definitively a home or a base of operation. She’s everywhere and nowhere, impossible to find, she never stays long in the place.

Age: 25

Brief Physical Description:
Her angel face of a rare purity could get her whatever she wants from the crowds if it was not for her terrible eyes.
Contrasting completely with her face, her hazelnut eyes are catching the slightest of ambient light, making then shine with an incredible hardness. This window on her soul is glimpsing a ferocious determination, unhealthy. A psyche so perverted that anyone strong enough to support her glare more than a mere instant as to wonder if Kyra is still a human being…

 Smaller than average, the frail frame of Kyra is the stigma of growth slowed by malnutrition. Yet her stature remains queen-like. She moves with a rare flexibility and her gestures are almost Elvish in accuracy, which gives her an even more strange inhuman aspect. Her long hair of the same color as her eyes are attached in the back, maintained by a series of leather laces that stiffens it enough so that it never shifts before her face regardless of the nature and the speed of her movements.

 Her sun tanned skin is free of any makeup. However, the top of her left shoulder wears the scar of a former burn, too clear to be accidental; it looks rather like the print of a mark made by a red iron. Although most of the drawing remains hidden under the dusty leather clothing, the little that shows looks like a Horde’s symbol.

 By her posture, gestures and especially her gaze, Kyra lets out an aura that makes most people uncomfortable. Yourself, after having observed her at length, are starting to feel awkward… Especially since she’s been giving you an icy stare over her shoulder, clearly indicating she’s onto you…

Brief Personality Description:
Kyra is mentally unstable combining borderline, paranoid and obsessive compulsive disorder.

Goals and motivators:
She’s in for revenge and hate the Horde with her guts, especially Orcs.

Passionate about the war:
War or peace does not matter to her, she will kill any Horde she comes across. War time is just making her task that more easy.

A typical quote: 
Revenge is for men, let women deal with Vengeance

History:
Kyra holds a personal journal you can refer to.

Note

Durant mes années noires où je n’écrivais pas officiellement, il faut croire que cela me hantait tout de même, car j’ai sombré dans le « Fanfiction » (fictions basées sur un univers dont on est fan). Ce qui suit sont des textes entièrement inspirés de l’univers du jeu de rôles « World of Warcraft ». Simples profiles de personnage, ou journaux intimes d’avatar, il faut y voir un manque que je cherchais à combler. Évidemment si vous n’êtes pas au fait de l’univers de ce jeu, certaines choses vous passeront au dessus de la tête, voir seront franchement longues et sans intérêt, mais bon, quand on joue la transparence, il faut aller jusqu’au bout 😉
Ha! J’oubliais… c’est en anglais dans le texte 😛

Name: Cythra (Darla)

Race: Gnome

Class: Warlock

Professions: Alchemist & Engineer

Current Home: Stormwind.

Age: 27

Brief Physical Description:
Fresh and with a juvenile face making her real age hard to guess, Cythra is
wearing two enormous pink tails accentuating again her childish, almost
cherubim look.

Her appearance will put a smile on the sturdiest adventurers.

But her albino eyes, oh her eyes!! They are an abomination of steadiness. White
pupils circling a dark pit connecting her soul to the deepest hellish
realms.   You cannot stand her look, it
frightens you to your very core. She never blinks, never drops her look off
you. And you realize that your soul is now slowly fading away from your body…
Break eye contact now! There might still be hope for you…

Brief Personality Description:
Cythra is the most egocentric character you’ll ever meet (hopefully for you).
All she cares about is her. All she says or does is aimed only at pleasing her.
Luckily enough her range of pleasurable things is quite large, so if you can
stand her enough to stick around, you will not get bored. She likes souls, and
to get them she enjoys to make little girls squeals in pain, burn bunnies
alive, inflict excruciating pain known to no man or woman still alive, hurt
babies, massacre entire families, destroy whatever others value most, etc…

On the scale of things there is bad, chaotic, hellish, demoniac, evil, and then
there is Cythra.

Goals and motivators:
Cythra wants to inflict pain to all and everything. It is the only thing she
knows can appease her, that, and maybe Power…

Passionate about the war:
Cythra loves war, any war; she can dwell into it all day long. Ravaging enemies
and being acclaimed for it, what’s not to like?

The only problem with war is that she has to constantly remind herself of who
is the enemy. Apparently, your side does not appreciate it when you land a
curse on them, and honestly, the “horde” does not seem that bad (and she knows
bad!) nor does the alliance seem that good, so mistakes can happen right? Who’s
to count a few more screams on the battlegrounds anyway?

A typical quote:
You should never separate children from their parents. That is why I always
kill the whole family.

History:
Darla ((her real name)) was raised in the typical, engineer oriented gnomish
family. Her Dad, an expert in engineered weaponry was often afar for is
research, but nonetheless loving and caring.

Her mom was just the best mom ever. Making pie, playing with her and her
younger brother, telling them stories of all kind. Life was good and filled
with love in their small yet practical home dug in the flank of a beautiful
hill just in the outskirts of Gnomeregan.

As she grew up, Darla developed
a knack for the arcane, and started studying the trades of mages. She was still
living home in her late teens when the great Gnomeregan incident happened. Sadly,
that day she was in, visiting her dad…

In the aftermath of the explosion, it so happened that her dad was pinned down
by a support beam that had fell from a corridor junction. Darla, herself
slightly injured on the left leg, tried to free him with no success.

After hours roaming the area looking for help, it became clear they were
stranded deep in the capital rumbles. Deep, alone, and soon in the complete
darkness as all remaining power to the emergency systems wore off…

Darla took care of her father
for days, using the water dripping from the walls to refresh him, using her
magic to create some light from time to time to check on him. But as the days
passed and the hope of being rescued slowly vanished, so did her dad. It was
ultimately a relief, as for the last three days she couldn’t bear to hear him
scream in agony, panting, begging her to kill him.

And so Darla was left alone
with toxic dripping water, radiations, no food, and the corpse of her father at
her side. Soon she did not have enough strength left to use any kind of magic
and was left in a pitch  black room,
waiting to die… But death did not come to deliver her. Instead, she felt the
thousands needles of hunger piercing her belly, and the madness taking its hold
on her mind.  After a month it was
unbearable, she was so weak she could not move a muscle, and yet she was alive,
feeling every bit of pain in her body and her mind, every minute, every
seconds, the pain was ticking like a clock, forbidding her to slip into coma or
better yet; death…

What doom had her keep living, what twisted fate could let her survive like
this?

She was not anymore, at least
not a gnome, not a living being… She was just pain and suffering. How long has
it been? Two, three months? No gnome can survive that long with no food and the
little water dripping on her face… Then how long? And why no one came? Where
was her loving mother? Her cherished little brother? Where was anyone for that
matter?

…

Darla never survived the
Gnomeregan destruction, but one year later, day to day on the anniversary date
of the explosion, Cythra came out of the rumbles. Someone had to step up,
someone with the guts of doing whatever was necessary to survive, Darla could
not do it, so after nearly 2 months of pain and starvation, Cythra did.

The radiations protecting the corpse from putrefaction, Cythra had more than
enough on a grown gnome body to be able to sustain herself for a while,
regaining enough strength to start using the arcane. Yet, since her training
was still at its beginning she could not manage to concentrate enough power to
free herself from the devastated room.

Arcane itself did not cut it, but Cythra knew that in dark places laid a power,
forbidden by mages; a power vastly superior here in the darkness… A few weeks
later she had taught herself enough to escape the room in a blasting bolt of
shadows, only to find herself prisoner of the entirely destroyed city maze.

Sustaining herself on corpses, troggs and rats, discovering the new ways of the
shadows, it finally took Cythra nine more months to get to the outside world on
her own. The radiations and darkness had rendered her eyes totally white but
for two pitch black pupils. Other than that, once properly washed and brushed,
she will look just like a charming little gnome. But before that she had
something to do… Kill those that had abandoned her… And she knew exactly where
to find them… In a cozy house, dug in the flank of a charming hill, not far
from where she had just emerged…