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A DRACONIC REBUTTAL


Jentos
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By some machination, a letter, bearing a sorcerous seal, came from the progenity of Azdromoth to the author of the Four Encyclicals 

 

hGtKi4W9cku5WToHTcqULzPJdrx1WO_f2vvpJdhNISUhJ_7ePuwhuTKLXeH-4As7ncVirUBSTdmAJEIzLx_9jr2S8VydoeYOzDXTuun3_JdYQ2j9_mDOO7bsyWrH04yPwrQ2pCcsZr_fQMqcOYYYh0g

O’, key-holder

 

Spoiler

 

Though your points are sweeping and vast - they are like the water running between my fingers as I pray, the water does not hold. Like such prayer, life, existence - being is not stale, it is not orderly, and it is not static. Life is movement and flow, bound to the rivers dug by history. Likewise, a person, even a dragon, never remains the same. We are the water running between fingers. We are all the water drank by Fate, willing or not. 

 

You call it ascension, but then hide that form away from the world, lingering among man whilst you are not one like a wolf among sheep.

 

I do not know you. I have not met you. Dare I say I do not think you have ever spied me. But you intend much, threaten much, and speak as if you knew us. But most importantly you expect - expect that my kind are slaves. You expect that my kind are blind. Expect that my kind are beasts. I tell you this; the Monument of Tor-Azdroth has no beasts. Am I a wolf? Are we all wolves? I know the ascension of which you speak, for I was made, and then I was broken, and then I was re-made. But I do not hide. One only need ask. 

 

Have you no dignity, no appreciation for thy own well-being, so as to forfeit not merely your soul, but also your body, to a creature which harbors no allegiance to anyone but himself? 

 

Man-of-keys. Who is the slave? Is it the man who walks in the dark, thinking he is free, or the one who knows he does not own himself. Death is no liberation. Life neither. A creature exists without willing, and even in death finds no freedom, for the Soul is eternal. Name me a man who owns himself. Name me a man who knows himself. There is none. The recesses of the Soul go as deep as the sea, they go as far as the stars shine. They go back to the very roots of time, a product of every thought, every experience, and every life. They are nothing, nothing but the shadows that came before. But how could you know? Only, the present is the fire that casts them, flickering with every instant, and with every last instant being now but a shadow on an ever-threading path, which he cannot stop threading. We are all slaves, little man. My father is one of them. 

 

You prey upon superstition and revel in chaos, turning fearful and worrying men into your thralls for no purpose other than pure ‘worship’ of your fraudulent god.

 

Azdromoth, God bless his name, is no god. I remember still, the stark rebuke mine brothers received. What is a god; is it a signifier of great strength? Of authority? A marker of metaphysical might? A god has no beginning or end, but it is no title claimed by my father. Father may be venerated, but only as a king. He is a monarch, a statesman, a lord, a mountain. He is terror. He is ruin. He is love. He is warmth. He is our genesis. Could you ever rebuke me for loving the one who gave me this life? What glory needs my father, for that he already owns. And of us? We have our own glory; the worship of the selfBut how could you know? 

 

Do not hate my father, key-holder. For he remembers the dream, old as time, for a black sun. I should remember it too, for it was Abdiel who tutored me. Only now I walk a golden-black path, the Aurelic one - great Asioth. 

 

But it must be understood that Asioth varies, for it is above all things individual in nature. Therein, many of my brothers go, and do as they please. And they find themselves alone, amassing hordes and knowledge. Though you should hope for us to yet be men, those men burned and died long ago. Hence you will find few men here. Only dragons. Dragons serving dragons who in turn serve men. Though we are hated by men, spited by men, and hunted by men, we have not forgotten the Horenic pact. It need only be invoked, and then only will you understand the truth to mine and my fathers’ allegiance. 

 

When the time is ripe and the armies of the Fifth rise to fulfill their eternal charge, it is you, insurgents of The Serpent, who shall be the first to fall. 

 

Tell me Xionist, you adorn yourself with illustrious fire, worship your brazen inner fire, and call yourself by such names, but I find time and time again that your adherents have a vivid detestation for the dragon. Mine are the living ambivalence of fire, the very product and proof of one’s inner fire. As such we are a grey neutrality, wavering between the shadows they cast and the warmth they give. Though we are Ruin we are also Passion. If your key is shadow and fire - then mine are made from the same stock. Though we have made it plain; our detestation for Gold, Silver and other such aengulic meddling you would still hate us. I ask you then; what mortality have we ever besmirched, that you should hate us for it? The dragon is immortal. The descendant is not. And we are no descendants, and never were. We are dragons-within-shells. 

 

As of the Academy? Disbanded by my order. 

 

As of the wayward brothers? Embraced in my arms. 

 

But how could you know? 

 

I am the An-Gho. 

Immortal Agent of the Titan Azdromoth, first son of Dragur. 

I am prince amongst my people. 

And I will see again.


“The Eye opens, but the Door shuts.”

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Hannes somehow got hold of this letter, caught by the winds near his keep, scratching his head at the meanings and intricacies of the rebuttal,

".. And I thought I could read."

 

He cast it aside, but the thought of the missive lingered.

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The Doomforged smiles his eyes dancing with ambition as they flickered to the missive, he hummed as he read.

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Bailiff Otto covers his eyes, not wanting to be traumatised by laying his eyes upon an Azdrazi's rebuttal

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A descendant of the late martyr Romano would read the missive, nodding as he thought of his uncle.

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And in the fiery heat of the rebuttal, a response was penned by the instigator:

 

So then there is wit among the forked-tongues, but your claims are vexing still.

 

Know that I am beyond the puerile sort of Xion, and their ways have left them shattered and in the choking dust of antiquity. They had their call, and it proved hollow. But do not think I hate you for thy nature alone, nor because of my ties to that feeble religion; but that you share in the same vow as those of silver and gold who you claim to hate in turn. You are not of men, and yet you serve him; is that not what is proclaimed by those who quiver to the whims of aengulic decree? Like a withering bough in the face of the breeze, they would shift their very will to align with those who granted them power, solely for power’s sake. For only ever have I encountered those who you say are now ash and dust; I have not seen their lord, but only that they pay him homage for their power, and that his likeness are spurned by the realms of men. 

 

Tell me then, Word of Fire, what is it he promises to you? To me he is but an extravagant flame which lingers beyond this world. Where is he then? Or is he only of those who hide behind shrouds of deception, speaking empty words to his adherents? For while I have not long-tread this land of living men, and yet I have found it festering with the touch of the divine like a pool of poisoned water, a taint which must be cleansed by the fire of men – for only he is fit to rule this domain. 

 

But you, who claim you are not beasts, are consumed by the notion that we are all but slaves; speaker of dragon-ilk, which is the better to be? Is a man better as a slave to his passions? Or is it better for a beast to pretend to be a man, as you so boldly claim is the nature of your brood? For if you are not of man in spirit, nor in body, from whence did you come; from where does your line hail? If my claims were sweeping and broad, your oath to your Father is yet broader still – for even now his likeness flits between joy and sorrow, envy and giving, wrath and mercy in your words. 

 

Perhaps your Father is beyond my own understanding, and by that I am humbled. But even so, the deeds of his progeny remain ever-clear in my mind, and unto that is my image of him and his ilk painted. So then prove to me that you are not what I most of all loath; prove that you are not mere hollow words, but deeds.

 

The flames roar with anticipation, and yet they are not fueled by draconic brood, but by man. Therefore, hark, men of fire, for I wait and see whether you too shall fan the flames, or be consumed in their wake.

 

— He Who Holds the Key to Flame and Darkness

 

 

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On a soft-winded morning, a reply returns

 

Though you are not of Lion - I see you await still, with patience, the Fifth. That is worthy work, and human-centric at best. 

However I find that your thoughts, misconstrued, twisted and moved by vagarious words, have found their way on your reply. 

 

For only ever have I encountered those who you say are now ash and dust; I have not seen their lord, but only that they pay him homage for their power, and that his likeness are spurned by the realms of men. 

 

Power is in all things. Fire is oft perceived as such ; as it is representative of ambition. But all things are bound, one to another. Where does power begin, where does it end? Is it in the hands of the scholar? Of the warrior? Is it owned by the beggar of no responsibility, or the king with too many? Do you see these parables, they are illustrative of our Asioth, our search for the Golden Path of knowledge, the illumination we seek and know we shall never find. If you wonder how it is that we drive adherents, then it might be that they are impressed by my father, it might be that they believe that with us they might work on their ambitions (as men and women are ever imperfect), but foremost it is Asioth, the gift of my father, and the continued ruminations of myself, Keledan, as well as the analysis of the fair Eresar which build unto the principle Asiothic literature and bestow knowledge and reason to our followers. Asioth has no beginning or end, hence, none might not be included under its grace. If there are any however - judged to have sought out such a path, out of nothing but greed, nothing but themselves, blinded as they are in the lack of individuity of this World - then pray, tell me. 

 

To me he is but an extravagant flame which lingers beyond this world. Where is he then? Or is he only of those who hide behind shrouds of deception, speaking empty words to his adherents?

 

To me, he is the screams in ever-treacherous Elvenesse, routed elves shouting amidst cacophony. To me he is the blood in my veins, the fire in my heart, the stone of my hide. To me he is the desolation of Sunbreak - who struck me down, and so bought themselves wrath. Do not doubt the acts of my father, key-holder, for he is a king. And kings war. As of where he lays - perhaps one day I shall tell you the intrinsic nature of my father. But it is not now. 

 

If my claims were sweeping and broad, your oath to your Father is yet broader still – for even now his likeness flits between joy and sorrow, envy and giving, wrath and mercy in your words. 

 

Just like any other man.

 

Is a man better as a slave to his passions? Or is it better for a beast to pretend to be a man, as you so boldly claim is the nature of your brood? For if you are not of man in spirit, nor in body, from whence did you come; from where does your line hail? 

 

Man is slave to history. Just as everything else. The human condition transcends the human. Will your Fifth abolish all kings, will he not - by simple virtue of his power, outshine others and wrack the World? The Fifth is an abstraction to my person; it is the empowerment of Man, liberation, the death of Fate. But Fate I fear, is beyond us, beyond even the grasp of gods, it is an intangible thing, gleaned ever briefly in the past, but untouchable in the end. As of passion? A man is a slave to a thousand things, never one, though one might delude themselves into thinking one thing takes precedence over the other. The greatest of chains are the ones unseen, indescribable, too complex, mired in the weavings of society, existence, and the very soul. As of yet, it escapes us, all of us. Perhaps not the alchemist Avenel - but for the rest, we toil. 

 

So then prove to me that you are not what I most of all loath

 

The foremost thing they loath is themselves, dear stranger.

 

So then prove to me that you are not what I most of all loath; prove that you are not mere hollow words, but deeds.

 

No. I have already acted. But will you see what has changed? Proof - legitimacy - action, they are the works of perception. I can only hope that I might perceive your own deeds. 

 

Tell me then, Word of Fire, what is it he promises to you?

 

A good death.

 

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