View source for Suicide Note of a Nameless Tsol'aa

By: Sandano
Posted on: May 26, 2004


As I sit here, about to release myself from this mortal coil, I contemplate
how fitting the word "coil" is. A coil, a cold piece of metal that endlessly
repeats the same motions over and over until its termination. Such a perfect
word to describe life. I suppose that one finding this note may wonder why I
would choose to destroy myself. To this I have no real response.

Perhaps, like the evolutionary offshoot of my race, the Tsol'dasi, I've
grown utterly disinterested with the affairs of mortality. I tire of the
suffering, the toil, the sheer futility of it all. My brethren have contented
themselves with hunting in our native Aalen, and some have traveled to the
cities to seek their fortunes, while still others have become rogues, bandits,
and thieves. They all do these things for the purpose of sustaining
themselves, so that they may do the same the next day, and the next, or perhaps
pursue some fleeting pleasure, or record their name in the scrolls of history,
as if students years from now might really care about the effort that those few
may put forth to make their mark on the land.

I am afflicted with a disorder that all suffer from. A disorder for which
there is no cure. A disorder that even the great Lord Sarapis suffered from at
one point, eons ago, when he was known as Ayar. The disorder I speak of is
boredom. It is like a common cold in that while many try to alleviate the
symptoms according to what they believe works best, none have managed to cure
completely it. Some try the arts, some try philosophy, some try manual labor,
some try combat, some try gambling, some try alcohol, and others resort to a
fast-paced life of crime. These all provide temporary relief from the chronic
illness, though none provide a truly permanent cure. It seems that the need to
placate boredom is as part of life as the need to placate hunger, thirst, or
fatigue.

I have never met a dead man who was hungry, or thirsty, or tired, or bored.

If the basic inclination of mortals is to satiate oneself so these conditions
are nullified, then have not the dead done what the living strive to do all
their lives? Perhaps the reason that life is finite and death is not, is that
death is the state that all subconsciously try to reach. Maybe this then, is
the reason that mortals will so willingly give their lives for their guild,
city, family, or Divine. They secretly all strive to die, though this is a
secret that they keep from everyone, even themselves. They wish to die in a
manner that will preserve the honour of whatever they value most.

Honour is such a fickle thing. The achievements of yesterday are quickly
usurped by the failures of today, to be superceded by whatever may come
tomorrow. To die with honour is to be honoured for eternity, for it allows no
chance of future dishonour. Is it really that important? Is respect truly
worth having once maggots begin to consume one's brain? The dead may as well
be nonexistent as far as I am concerned. Thus, in less than a minute, this
vial of poison I hold in my left hand will erase my own existence, and with it,
all the pain and worries that go with living.
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