[youtube]19NdWasgpDo[/youtube]
The small church's walls of stone and mortar could hide the burning village from the eyes, but it could not drown out the screams. It could not stop the smell of charring matter. And it could not stop the sense of fear that filled the air as thick and chocking as the acrid smoke.
The priestess stood there, at the head of the chapel, her white robes covered in soot and blood. She stood rigid as a small child clutched to the hem of her robe with his little, grubby fingers. His face was buried into the fabric of her attire to hid his crying eyes from the horrors that he had seen.Â
The blonde, hyur priestess shivered as she clutched her holy book to her chest. Her blue eyes never left the door of her small chapel as the door shook. Something had thrown itself against the barred door with a reckless abandon.
The child whimpered and clutched at her tighter.Â
The priestess swallowed in fear. She had nothing to save her from the thing at the doorstep now but her prayers and faith; and she felt fear in her mind knowing that it might not be enough to spare her the fate that had claimed her village.
She gasped as the door rocked again and then flew inwards, splinters spraying out over the short distance between the double doors and her.
Smoke rolled in and only a nightmarish shape could be seen through the haze.
The boy began sobbing louder. The priestess shook again as the wind caught the haze and sent the smoke adrift, revealing the form of the miqo'te in black lurking in the doorway.
The feline figure slowly entered the building, it's tail swishing to-and-fro as he gazed around.
The woman looked on in silence as the miqo'te took a seat on the front pew and crossed his legs. The thin fingers interlaced themselves as he looked with black eyes at the two survivors while his left leg crossed over his right.
"What do you want?" the priestess exclaimed, her voice louder than she had intended. She held her composure despite the fear eating at her base instincts.
The miqo'te studied her quietly before he turned his attention behind her to a stain glass window depicting the Twelve. The sun was catching the glass perfectly and the entire scene was wonderfully illuminated with rich, vibrant colors of all hues.
"This one desires only to create art as wonderful as the marvelous collection of colored glass behind you." the miqo'te in black explained calmly while nodding his head at the window. His black-and-white hair fell about his face for a moment.Â
The priestess looked behind her and then back at the miqo'te.
"By butchering innocent villagers?!" The priestess exclaimed in dismay. The pale miqo'te met her gaze and gave a shrug.
"Not just villagers, my Lady. This one kills warriors, knights, thieves, rapists, murders, lovers, children, priests, and every other sort of being not previously mentioned. This on is far from discriminatory."
The priestess could only blink at the calloused response and the miqo'te continued in his monotone voice.
"You see, this one is an artist. This one is in possession of the tools. This one has the vision. But, you see, this one needs the perfect canvas. No matter how perfect the tools in one's possession, without a wonderful base material to start with, the final product shall never live up too the artist's goal. This one assumes you love your gods. But, they clearly have no love for you, else they would stop me where I stand."
The miqo'te smirked.
"You see, the truth is, the Twelve are identical to all power hungry fools: they desire to control you and nothing more. Control the way you think. Control the way you talk. Control the way you perceive reality. It's all about controlling you and keeping you weak. This one isn't about that life. This one is about something far more. The Twelve, just like all those in power, fear the day we, mortals, might become strong enough to cast them off. That is why they promise to keep us safe and away from any threat. Because it is only in the face of adversity that mortals can be made strong. So better to hide you away from danger or to let the danger kill you, than let one face the danger, survive, and possibly become stronger. In the tales of old, no one ever became great by simply having greatness from birth. They struggled. They rose up. They fought something, and overcame it to become far more than they once were."Â
The miqo'te shrugged his shoulders as he continued.
"Certainly not all can overcome their challenges. But those that do, become strong. A blacksmith can make a mineral a million times harder and far more valuable by beating it over and over with hammer and flame into something wondrous. But the blacksmith needs quality ore or else the beating will break the weak ore and the work of art would crumble. So this one wanders the land, like a blacksmith seeking the perfect ore to beat into a thing of beauty."
The priestess stared at the monstrous little miqo'te, dumbfounded.
"Why would you want his, why would think this was-"
"Because, My Lady," the miqo'te interrupted. "this one desires something. This one seeks to cast down all the laws of mortals, nations, and gods. To let all face the anarchy that will make them strong. This one might as well be an invading army, or a force of nature. For, in the end, adversity is adversity no matter its form. But it is through adversity that mortals are raised up from the status of mere sheep and into the things of power that they can be. Into masterpieces of beings that take their fates into their own hands and became far more than what they were told they could be. This one aims to leave a legacy of art behind it. A string of perfect artwork. Of souls beaten into greatness."Â
The miqo'te gave a toothy smile as several shapes slowly entered the chapel through the smoke bank. The priestess gave a horrified gasp as her eyes widened. The sound of flames crackling outside mixed with the boy's sobs.
The miqo'te's ears flicked in pleasure as he calmly leaned back and recited a line of poetry while fixing his eyes upon the priestess:
The small church's walls of stone and mortar could hide the burning village from the eyes, but it could not drown out the screams. It could not stop the smell of charring matter. And it could not stop the sense of fear that filled the air as thick and chocking as the acrid smoke.
The priestess stood there, at the head of the chapel, her white robes covered in soot and blood. She stood rigid as a small child clutched to the hem of her robe with his little, grubby fingers. His face was buried into the fabric of her attire to hid his crying eyes from the horrors that he had seen.Â
The blonde, hyur priestess shivered as she clutched her holy book to her chest. Her blue eyes never left the door of her small chapel as the door shook. Something had thrown itself against the barred door with a reckless abandon.
The child whimpered and clutched at her tighter.Â
The priestess swallowed in fear. She had nothing to save her from the thing at the doorstep now but her prayers and faith; and she felt fear in her mind knowing that it might not be enough to spare her the fate that had claimed her village.
She gasped as the door rocked again and then flew inwards, splinters spraying out over the short distance between the double doors and her.
Smoke rolled in and only a nightmarish shape could be seen through the haze.
The boy began sobbing louder. The priestess shook again as the wind caught the haze and sent the smoke adrift, revealing the form of the miqo'te in black lurking in the doorway.
The feline figure slowly entered the building, it's tail swishing to-and-fro as he gazed around.
The woman looked on in silence as the miqo'te took a seat on the front pew and crossed his legs. The thin fingers interlaced themselves as he looked with black eyes at the two survivors while his left leg crossed over his right.
"What do you want?" the priestess exclaimed, her voice louder than she had intended. She held her composure despite the fear eating at her base instincts.
The miqo'te studied her quietly before he turned his attention behind her to a stain glass window depicting the Twelve. The sun was catching the glass perfectly and the entire scene was wonderfully illuminated with rich, vibrant colors of all hues.
"This one desires only to create art as wonderful as the marvelous collection of colored glass behind you." the miqo'te in black explained calmly while nodding his head at the window. His black-and-white hair fell about his face for a moment.Â
The priestess looked behind her and then back at the miqo'te.
"By butchering innocent villagers?!" The priestess exclaimed in dismay. The pale miqo'te met her gaze and gave a shrug.
"Not just villagers, my Lady. This one kills warriors, knights, thieves, rapists, murders, lovers, children, priests, and every other sort of being not previously mentioned. This on is far from discriminatory."
The priestess could only blink at the calloused response and the miqo'te continued in his monotone voice.
"You see, this one is an artist. This one is in possession of the tools. This one has the vision. But, you see, this one needs the perfect canvas. No matter how perfect the tools in one's possession, without a wonderful base material to start with, the final product shall never live up too the artist's goal. This one assumes you love your gods. But, they clearly have no love for you, else they would stop me where I stand."
The miqo'te smirked.
"You see, the truth is, the Twelve are identical to all power hungry fools: they desire to control you and nothing more. Control the way you think. Control the way you talk. Control the way you perceive reality. It's all about controlling you and keeping you weak. This one isn't about that life. This one is about something far more. The Twelve, just like all those in power, fear the day we, mortals, might become strong enough to cast them off. That is why they promise to keep us safe and away from any threat. Because it is only in the face of adversity that mortals can be made strong. So better to hide you away from danger or to let the danger kill you, than let one face the danger, survive, and possibly become stronger. In the tales of old, no one ever became great by simply having greatness from birth. They struggled. They rose up. They fought something, and overcame it to become far more than they once were."Â
The miqo'te shrugged his shoulders as he continued.
"Certainly not all can overcome their challenges. But those that do, become strong. A blacksmith can make a mineral a million times harder and far more valuable by beating it over and over with hammer and flame into something wondrous. But the blacksmith needs quality ore or else the beating will break the weak ore and the work of art would crumble. So this one wanders the land, like a blacksmith seeking the perfect ore to beat into a thing of beauty."
The priestess stared at the monstrous little miqo'te, dumbfounded.
"Why would you want his, why would think this was-"
"Because, My Lady," the miqo'te interrupted. "this one desires something. This one seeks to cast down all the laws of mortals, nations, and gods. To let all face the anarchy that will make them strong. This one might as well be an invading army, or a force of nature. For, in the end, adversity is adversity no matter its form. But it is through adversity that mortals are raised up from the status of mere sheep and into the things of power that they can be. Into masterpieces of beings that take their fates into their own hands and became far more than what they were told they could be. This one aims to leave a legacy of art behind it. A string of perfect artwork. Of souls beaten into greatness."Â
The miqo'te gave a toothy smile as several shapes slowly entered the chapel through the smoke bank. The priestess gave a horrified gasp as her eyes widened. The sound of flames crackling outside mixed with the boy's sobs.
The miqo'te's ears flicked in pleasure as he calmly leaned back and recited a line of poetry while fixing his eyes upon the priestess:
"That first brush with death
shook loose her confident grasp
of all she held dear."
shook loose her confident grasp
of all she held dear."