Information
Candles
Legacy Name: Candles
The
Glacier LainOwner:
ClassyAge: 13 years, 4 months, 2 weeks
Born: December 15th, 2010
Adopted: 13 years, 4 months, 2 weeks ago
Adopted: December 15th, 2010
Statistics
- Level: 1
- Strength: 10
- Defense: 10
- Speed: 10
- Health: 10
- HP: 10/10
- Intelligence: 0
- Books Read: 0
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Unemployed
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Before I died my Grandmother used to tell me things about the crafts in which she practiced. I remember, now, a most vivid image of her sitting me down on her ragged old couch and staring blankly into the flame of a candle. We sat like that for some time until, at last, the flame flicked quickly to one side, as if hit by a draft. Her face, wrinkled by age and the bad fortune of a gypsy, creased into a toothless grin. "There, Mihai, did you see that?" She licked her lips tenderly as she reached for the candlestick - it's flame weak and quiet. "We are no longer the only ones in this room, you know." As young as I was I questioned her, "Grandmama, there is no one besides you and me, we are alone."
If the look in her eyes had been anything less than mischievous then God help me. She pulled the scarf on her head just slightly tighter as she brought the flame of the candle closer, and in her wise, hushed voice said, "Watch, Mihai, and you will see."
The flame rose in height, and my grandmother grabbed it and, to my astonishment, held the flame in her hands. She murmured, "Hard times are coming, Mihai." as she pulled the flame in two, ground it to small pieces in her palms, and then, with a hard breath, blew the sparks out like embers. They floated there in midair, dancing quietly into the figure of a face. The two of us sat quietly - the face examined us with such intensity that my skin was soon covered in goosebumps.
Grandmother's voice broke the silence, "And who are you?"
My family is large - or, rather, had been before the war. It was not necessarily a blood-kin family, but the community in which raised me after my mother was imprisoned for theft. My grandmother, the only true blood relation I had, raised me and taught me the way of the Gypsy. Though in the time I grew the world became less noble, and in turn colder to our people. As my grandmother grew older we were forced to settle - a tragic shift from our conveniently nomadic lifestyle - in Germany. We lived there for many years, and my grandmother taught me the skills of magic - my favorite was, indeed, that of souls. She told me that day, as the face of flame spoke to us casually through his veil of smoke, that each time a candle flickers a new soul has entered the room. I spent many days watching the lonely rushlight on the windowsill, waiting. Waiting to practice what she had taught me. Who were these people? Roman soldiers, Italian painters, Egyptian beggars wandered far from their homelands. I listened to their stories through masks of fire, patient, curious. I spent my days ignoring the wretches of hunger and poverty, dividing myself from the thievery and crystal balls of Gypsy lore, and instead indulged in the histories of wandering, dead strangers. Grandmother was right, however, hard times came to pass.
It came in the form of dark uniforms, not long after the election.
Before me the ground trembled under Nazi feet. They marched continually on – but they were not alone. Each vest and gun was set at the front and back of each group – you could say, perhaps, that they were the half-note to each group of 18th-notes. And that's what they were, too, 18th-notes. Walking skeletons, pale, half-naked, each a shroud of the man or of the woman they were before. They scrambled along, most of them barefoot, in the German winter.
From my window I watched in sadness, as it was all I could do. The frost had gathered quietly at the edges of each warped, old pane. Things shook and vibrated on shelves as they stomped on. This procession was strangely short in comparison to others that had been through recently; a bad sign, I figured. Either fewer and fewer were surviving, or, worse, they were finding fewer and fewer and would soon be raiding my own village for its “unwanted†people. I had heard of them cleansing towns and cities of their gypsies. I wondered when I would be one of those skeletal figures walking passed the window of some curious, worried stranger. My breath was cold, and I turned the small opal owl in my hand.
The owl is not a happy bird. Though, as I wander modern streets I see it is a symbol of wisdom, intelligence, honor, age... but in the Gypsy tradition it is merely bad luck: the coming of sickness, discontent, death. Predation; Deception. An owl hunts when it's victim cannot see, it is quiet and guiltless.
The figurine was far from complete – it was rugged on the edges, rough in places. The beak was malformed, twisted and chipped. I was not an artist in this sense – a bard, a thief even, but not an artist. I could not hold myself up to those standards. I was not a beautiful thing, and surely I could not create one. But the owl was my escape, and it was what I needed.
That is what I worked with: the embodiment of a creature who is death and deception, made by Opal – a stone of hope, of healing. A stone of clarity, faith, and love. It is what I escaped into. I was trapped by something calloused and terrible, but I was resting in the necessities of the moral and kind world. I stowed my soul away in this figurine, and I waited.
When they took me away I was ready. I did not fight, I did not run. I had not eaten in days, I had not slept in weeks. I was ready to die. The last thing I recall was hearing only screams and the sounds of people vomiting before I, too, was on the ground begging death to finally take me from my body.
Can you hear me breathing?
Candles, or Mihai, is a young ghost of a 17-year old boy from Romanian descent. He is most commonly seen in the form of an owl whose feathers seem cloudy, but shimmer brilliantly like that of an opal stone. However, on occasion he may appear in his human form (though this will only happen if he likes you enough). It is also not often that you will see him - in either owl or human form - outside of any season but winter unless in a very cold environment. No one is quite sure why this is, but Mihai has hinted that it's simply because he loves the snow.
He is generally a friendly bird, and an even friendly human, and will most likely do as best as he can to serve you - especially if you are in need. He is quiet, however, and many assume him to be plainly mute, as even as a bird he rarely makes any sound at all. It is not certain whether or not he is truly mute, or if it is only that his fears prevent him from speaking. After all, he was never very social with the living, and only seemed to communicate well with the dead.
World War II Memorial, Caen France
United States Holocaust Memorial Museam, Washington D.C.
Anne Frank Museum, Amsterdam
I strongly urge you all to visit these, or any museum based around the horrors and tragedies of World War II. It is more than a nightmare, it is a lesson which, in a day of modern technology and political idealism, we truly need to understand. I also urge you to not stop there - go a step further and research genocide (including modern genocide), and take a stand in what you believe in. We are the reason our world is as it is today. It is up to each of us to take control over our lives, and set an example for those around us. The three museums above, which I have all visited, changed my life in many ways: from the story of the war, to the story of a population decimated, to the story of an individual whose life was altered and destroyed. I encourage you to give a part of your heart to History..
Owl by User not found: erica
Owl byKyla
If the look in her eyes had been anything less than mischievous then God help me. She pulled the scarf on her head just slightly tighter as she brought the flame of the candle closer, and in her wise, hushed voice said, "Watch, Mihai, and you will see."
The flame rose in height, and my grandmother grabbed it and, to my astonishment, held the flame in her hands. She murmured, "Hard times are coming, Mihai." as she pulled the flame in two, ground it to small pieces in her palms, and then, with a hard breath, blew the sparks out like embers. They floated there in midair, dancing quietly into the figure of a face. The two of us sat quietly - the face examined us with such intensity that my skin was soon covered in goosebumps.
Grandmother's voice broke the silence, "And who are you?"
My family is large - or, rather, had been before the war. It was not necessarily a blood-kin family, but the community in which raised me after my mother was imprisoned for theft. My grandmother, the only true blood relation I had, raised me and taught me the way of the Gypsy. Though in the time I grew the world became less noble, and in turn colder to our people. As my grandmother grew older we were forced to settle - a tragic shift from our conveniently nomadic lifestyle - in Germany. We lived there for many years, and my grandmother taught me the skills of magic - my favorite was, indeed, that of souls. She told me that day, as the face of flame spoke to us casually through his veil of smoke, that each time a candle flickers a new soul has entered the room. I spent many days watching the lonely rushlight on the windowsill, waiting. Waiting to practice what she had taught me. Who were these people? Roman soldiers, Italian painters, Egyptian beggars wandered far from their homelands. I listened to their stories through masks of fire, patient, curious. I spent my days ignoring the wretches of hunger and poverty, dividing myself from the thievery and crystal balls of Gypsy lore, and instead indulged in the histories of wandering, dead strangers. Grandmother was right, however, hard times came to pass.
It came in the form of dark uniforms, not long after the election.
Before me the ground trembled under Nazi feet. They marched continually on – but they were not alone. Each vest and gun was set at the front and back of each group – you could say, perhaps, that they were the half-note to each group of 18th-notes. And that's what they were, too, 18th-notes. Walking skeletons, pale, half-naked, each a shroud of the man or of the woman they were before. They scrambled along, most of them barefoot, in the German winter.
From my window I watched in sadness, as it was all I could do. The frost had gathered quietly at the edges of each warped, old pane. Things shook and vibrated on shelves as they stomped on. This procession was strangely short in comparison to others that had been through recently; a bad sign, I figured. Either fewer and fewer were surviving, or, worse, they were finding fewer and fewer and would soon be raiding my own village for its “unwanted†people. I had heard of them cleansing towns and cities of their gypsies. I wondered when I would be one of those skeletal figures walking passed the window of some curious, worried stranger. My breath was cold, and I turned the small opal owl in my hand.
The owl is not a happy bird. Though, as I wander modern streets I see it is a symbol of wisdom, intelligence, honor, age... but in the Gypsy tradition it is merely bad luck: the coming of sickness, discontent, death. Predation; Deception. An owl hunts when it's victim cannot see, it is quiet and guiltless.
The figurine was far from complete – it was rugged on the edges, rough in places. The beak was malformed, twisted and chipped. I was not an artist in this sense – a bard, a thief even, but not an artist. I could not hold myself up to those standards. I was not a beautiful thing, and surely I could not create one. But the owl was my escape, and it was what I needed.
That is what I worked with: the embodiment of a creature who is death and deception, made by Opal – a stone of hope, of healing. A stone of clarity, faith, and love. It is what I escaped into. I was trapped by something calloused and terrible, but I was resting in the necessities of the moral and kind world. I stowed my soul away in this figurine, and I waited.
When they took me away I was ready. I did not fight, I did not run. I had not eaten in days, I had not slept in weeks. I was ready to die. The last thing I recall was hearing only screams and the sounds of people vomiting before I, too, was on the ground begging death to finally take me from my body.
Can you hear me breathing?
Candles, or Mihai, is a young ghost of a 17-year old boy from Romanian descent. He is most commonly seen in the form of an owl whose feathers seem cloudy, but shimmer brilliantly like that of an opal stone. However, on occasion he may appear in his human form (though this will only happen if he likes you enough). It is also not often that you will see him - in either owl or human form - outside of any season but winter unless in a very cold environment. No one is quite sure why this is, but Mihai has hinted that it's simply because he loves the snow.
He is generally a friendly bird, and an even friendly human, and will most likely do as best as he can to serve you - especially if you are in need. He is quiet, however, and many assume him to be plainly mute, as even as a bird he rarely makes any sound at all. It is not certain whether or not he is truly mute, or if it is only that his fears prevent him from speaking. After all, he was never very social with the living, and only seemed to communicate well with the dead.
United States Holocaust Memorial Museam, Washington D.C.
Anne Frank Museum, Amsterdam
I strongly urge you all to visit these, or any museum based around the horrors and tragedies of World War II. It is more than a nightmare, it is a lesson which, in a day of modern technology and political idealism, we truly need to understand. I also urge you to not stop there - go a step further and research genocide (including modern genocide), and take a stand in what you believe in. We are the reason our world is as it is today. It is up to each of us to take control over our lives, and set an example for those around us. The three museums above, which I have all visited, changed my life in many ways: from the story of the war, to the story of a population decimated, to the story of an individual whose life was altered and destroyed. I encourage you to give a part of your heart to History..
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