The First Step

[ronin_champloo 5951]

T H E F I R S T S T E P

THE SPLIT WORLD

“Fire always remains. Fire -- the gift of man." - An-Gho

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He stood ‘pon the empty belly of his Dreadnaught. Lessons lingered in the air, remnants of flame and fire where there once was voice. A fair, beautiful voice – wrought and backed up by a brillant illumance, passion rapt as words morphed onto a great chasm of cinder. Yet, afore him only existed wrath. A turbulent anger that was laden with obsidian and brimstone, a damning ire; a brazen reflection that only spoke whispers of a bitter desire – Fratricide. The Nephilim could not shake it, for it clung onto him like a disease and tumour, one that embedded itself deep into his psyche and stone-heart. An empty gaze turned, it panned and sought to glance at his surroundings. 

Afore him, a tall tower stood, brought of blackstone, ash and magma. The Drake-Throne. It spanned the entirety of the room, wings – vibrant and long – as banners of his siblings hung on it. 

Wings Shroud you. 

Crimson and fleeting, he smashed it in his rage. The Nephilim’s hands grasped the body of the wings, before tearing it off. Flame spewed out like tears from the inanimate object, dribbling onto the floor as it was raining. 

This will be your penance. 

It was dropped onto the floor, and still did wrath linger. A bitter hate. Streams of smoke lingered around the broken throne. The rumble where once did something stand – an ideal, a memory; a cause. And yet, it could be rebuilt. It was still alive, for a fool believed in the dream. An unforgiving cold. An unrelenting turmoil. He closed his eyes as the Nephilim wandered to the remains, taking a seat upon the wreckage. He opened his eyes, and there was a fleeting voice.

A circle of salt surrounded the rumble of the once-great Throne, unspoken symbolics held around it; yet it was of a draconic imagery, laden with flames and cinder. A breath was taken, and he closed his eyes once more. A few words left his maw, as did bitter smoke and ash. Upon it, the Nephilim remained sitting – another second. Then another. And then more. And lastly, in the sixth second were the forbidden words spoken.

AND THERE, DID FLAME DANCE AMIDST STARLIGHT.

 

"You are Wrath.”

 

In the seventh second, Marchosias dreamt of a split world. Of a plane split in two, divided by a river running in each direction. On one side is a sprawling grassland dotted with fields of crops and creeks whilst the other is a vast, dense jungle thick with vines and massive shrubs. One where survival and hate were separated, where murderers and survivors were split apart. He stayed within it for some time, as the days mended onto weeks, and onto months. Time was not relative to him, it did not speak to him as it did others. He watched the herbivores roam the prairie, and the carnivores dance in the jungles, and yet – he felt so alone, so empty. In here, there was no freedom, only instinct. Only control. They eat, slaughter and devour, and want more. Did he want more?

It disgusted him to no end, yet the words of one granted him relief.

 

“Is that not our definition?”

 

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Would you trade your life, or even your freedom, for comfort and purpose. He asked the herbivores of the prairie, creatures not confident in their ability to make decisions. Those who’d live within a pack, awaiting orders from their betters; trading freedom for comfort. They were dogs, those who’d follow the orders from their masters. They murder and devour, when they are told to without thinking about it, for it is within their instinct. Their chains and shackles. You will be but a tool for whoever owns you. There is no comfort in following commands, as there is no individuality in becoming a dog.

 

It disgusted him to no end, yet the words of one granted him relief.

“Is that not our making?”

 

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Would you accept your surroundings; the danger and hatred for your ambitions and goals. He asked this to the carnivores of the jungle, creatures too accepting of their turmoil. Their numbers were low and fleeting, only carnage and slaughter stood in the miasma of the jungle. They were too accepting of their environment and vices, enough that they didn’t realise other choices existed. And so, they died. Again and again, amidst bloodshed. They were too comfortable in a situation that couldn’t be accepted. Accept the danger, the turmoil and hate, and you’ll surrender your life away.

 

It disgusted him to no end, yet the words of one granted him relief.

“Is that not our purpose?”

 

On the final day, he sat amidst the river. The water gushed and surrounded him and his form, he was relieved yet still bitter. The Nephilim was aware of it, he could not live a good life without risk. There is no comfort if ideals are not challenged, and set. Worked towards and evolved. And from ashes, do flames arise. He was following orders, his own orders – ones that granted him ease and freedom of the mind. All to escape pain and suffering. Pain was temporary, lingering like the streams of the river that he sat upon. The life of fighting and turmoil is one for an accursed creature like him. He wanted more.

IN THE END, YOU ARE STILL A MONSTER.

Yet, we are his – no longer.

The adamantine blade was silent. It hung upon his hip, clashing against the river itself. Once more, it was done; a circle of salt surrounded the stone that he sat upon. And with flame were symbols written around it. A breath was taken, his lips creased upward. Then another. And then more. And lastly, in the sixth second were the forbidden words spoken. A dream once more rose and from it, another step taken onto the unknown.

 

Spoiler

https://gyazo.com/cda05dd2aab77430e394903402f1a52c

 

Bipus | The Split World | Division
A plane split in two, divided by a river running in both directions. On one side is a sprawling grassland dotted with fields of crops and creeks whilst the other is a vast, dense jungle thick with vines and massive shrubs. Only herbivores roam the prairie and only carnivores roam the jungle.

[Ryloth 4316]

Spoiler

based. always love some of these forum magic posts

 

[excited 10836]

A ancient monstrosity dormant within the caverns of Savoy let out a soft rumble, its body shifting - the titan awakening and then rising to its feet. The beast's crimson-tinted scales shimmered thickly against its musculature; the tall and armored figure - the predecessor, the first-born, arose from the depths. The white war paint of Tor Azdraeth adorned the creature's brow-ridge, the thick and protruding jawline of the beastial man gnashing its molars.

 

"Slumbered only to see the Flight go a wayward path. Obsolete, no purpose for existence, laden with the fruits of labor that was not theirs. Those true to the cause of dragons shall sally forth, those who sit upon ill-earned fruits earned at the expense of my own fortunes, however... I need not say it further. Statues shall adorn my hoard soon."

[MRCHENN 3671]

Love would reign supreme.

 

That night, a man knelt before a shrine, a prayer sent to God.

 

That night, he would not experience dread, revenge, nor envy for the actions of the dragonkin; he found only solace. Solace that he was imparted an infinite truth: the dream of the Third Eye. That the realization of the distraught Nephilim would only mean the end of this realm. Only the Void left to conquer it.

 

That night, he prayed for Marchosias, that he could only welcome his sin as his own, akin to a brother embracing his kin. That Marchosias would find his own solace in love: the solution to his eternal writhing in envy.