Of the Ogres. Of the musclebound, warring tribes whose King didn't even want them in the end I have some choice words, if the archive's records are correct. For one, I side with their lost King. I, too would abandon the people who didn't know how to read, let alone treat, books. As well, I am terrified at what they call their refuge, the “Ashen Sanctum.” It's horrific. It evokes the spirit of the Ashen Elves where there are none to be found, or at least smelled, for all the Ogres. It brings to mind images of a host of Elves dealing with demonic forces. It brings to mind loss.
What do they know of lost civilization? The dullards have been having a war over literacy since time immemorial, if the Tomes are indeed that old, and when one of them does find within themselves a spark of literacy, do they aid their people by imparting this newfound knowledge unto the masses? No! Nor do they take the mantle of leadership for long, before the burdens they're shouldering become far too much to bear and they stride off into the wilderness to go mad and talk to trees. Tis no wonder that while about the city I have seen Druidic looking Ogres traipsing alongside real Druids, if the inclination of their former leader was to make woo with the woods. Being uncivil is their nature, as opposed to real Elven druids who simply make study of nature, and be part of it, but distinct from it as well. I would rather be the conduit than the underbrush.
No, they have never had a civilization. I imagine them living in mud huts and cooking meat around a fire. Any fineries one of them might have are assuredly pillaged from a recent kill, no doubt some unassuming lost Myr who bubbled a little when they spoke and uttered on error an insult in whatever language for which the Ogre's grunting passes. One might take a fist to the midsection and accidentally compliment an Ogre's mother. Any culture whose most influential literature drives the bearer to frolic, “free,” in the forest is a culture that should embrace that, rather than living in a squat mud cylinder having a constant panic attack about which corner in which to do their business.
I wonder if they even have a word for cylinder. No doubt they just have a word for “place” and glands of some sort that emanate a musk, that the recipient might know the smell of the location being described olfactorily.
So, let us take measure of the extent of my disgust. Of the senses these clamoring masses of brainless muscle offend, I have described their odor, stated how they offend the eyes with their attempts at fashion, alluded as to the unpleasant nature of their grunt-strewn attempts at communication on the ears, and the mere thought of touching or worse, tasting an Ogre makes me retch. But what of the other senses? What of a sense of decency, keeping their vile forms as far from my precious Tree as possible? What of a sense of belonging? But then, if you don't teach people to read you must not have very good parenting skills, culturally speaking. Any proud Ogre is proud of what they are, not of the culture that bore them. I find that abhorrent.
It strikes me that if I might feel sorry for Ogres for not being born to the same splendor as the Elven people. But then, it also strikes me that if Elves had in the beginning access to the Tomes, perhaps the Tomes' knowledge would have been accessed sooner, the smarter Ogres (the monosyllabic ones, as opposed to the nonverbal ones) would have learned to read the books, themselves, and wouldn't have lost a perfectly good King to zoophilia. Such tragedy that the Ogres do not come to us for help on these matters of state. We are not an unreasonable people. Grunt politely and you may get aid. Simply rename your sanctum.
I feel it unfair to judge a people for essentially not living up to Elven standards. But then, life is not fair, one simply must have standards, and Elven standards have been and shall continue to prove to be superior in every way. I would weep for them for want of a smudge-less page.
Alas, dear journal, my iced fruit wine has arrived and I dread spilling on your pages. Until next time, I remain,