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[PK] The Burial of a Martyred Beast


Callistus
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In years past, a man, conflicted by his despair of humanity and its devolution in the false name of modernity, forged a pact with something primordial. He pried into an evil which had better not be touched, and imposed a mark of 'devilry' upon himself in an act of martyrdom and self-abandon. His cause, one that left him a recluse among people, a beast in the flesh of Man, sacrificed the once-holy selfness of this man in the grand pursuit of a thorough cleansing. His dogma was one of rebirth through regression, and it insisted that humanity had strayed from its original course. In this apostolic road, the only path to Man's deliverance from their worship of the ego was to be basked in their own blood, by their very clawed hands. Through the transience of men into primordial beasts, the vicar Godefroy believed he could restore balance to the world and usher in an era where instinct alone would rule; for in the absence of wit and conscious, what would there exist to divide between good and evil? When judgement abates, the distinction falls, and Man is ruled only by his predation. A 'thing' who cannot judge and acts solely by some bestial intents is incapable of spite, hatred, and thereby more Man than men who, in their wit and grand consciousness, willingly drive themselves into acts of evil.

 

And when Viedrick looked upon the world, he saw a moat tainted by the vices of an untrue humanity that branched from its nature; Perversion, justless murder, forced adultery. It was marked that the world was in true need for purification. He envisioned a place where the beasts of old, 'true' shapes of men would rise once more, and the corruption that had become of mankind would be washed away, come upon by their forgotten instinct.

 

Months passed, and the pilgrimage of Viedrick Godefroy came to an end. As he made return to the sanctuary of his people, the skies above opened, unleashing a cleansing rain. 

 

And when he crested the final hill overlooking his once-thriving haven, he was met with dancing shadows and reaching limbs of flame. The church and vicarage he had so painstakingly constructed lay washed by fire, reduced to charred timber and black smolder. An oppressive silence weighed heavily upon the village, save for when the wind howled and the fires sang.

 

As he made way deeper into the remains of his place, the reality of his predicament began to set in. Not only had his church been razed to the ground, but each last trace of his ideology had been expunged. The writings and artifacts that bore witness to his beliefs were gone. The man felt a touch of metaphorical death, for the very purpose of his remanence in this world had been snuffed out. 

 

The rain continued its descent, and he fell to his knees, throwing pitted hands above his head, calling upon the divine through a gap in the heavens for guidance in what was his darkest hour.

 

"Oh, divine providence, one true God, grant me arms with which to wade through this struggle, and eyes by which to see thy ordinance to fruition," His voice was a desperate howl, muted by the deluge. "I have devoted my life and spilt endless blood to your cause- do not let me be swayed unto inaction. Help me rebuild, help me restore the balance that has been lost. Help me rebuild, help me restore.. oh, oh, one God."

 

As he uttered his plea, lightning struck with a deafening crack, its blinding flash announcing the desolate verdict sung from above. The bolt had hit the ground beneath a gnarled old tree, revealing a shallow grave that seemed to have been dug in anticipation of this very moment. It was as if the heavens themselves had guided him to his final task, and ruled his fate at long last; a self-imposed penance for the devastation that had struck his prophecy, a means by which to atone for his failure to bring about the rebirth of the true Man.

 

Indeed, the grave seemed to beckon to him, urging the man to surrender all hope into the cold embrace of the earth. With heavy heart, the Vicar abided to higher will and stepped toward the final sepulcher, his footsteps echoing the solemn rhythm of rain. And when the rain continued to fall, the grave seemed to grow larger, hungry for the sacrifice it demanded.

 

Viedrick Terzieff Godefroy lowered himself into the ditch, blood pounding into his ears with a rhythm that echoed the storm above. The walls of the grave closed in around him, and the darkness turned absolute.

 

In his end, the Vicar of Aemesh, feared as a shifting beast among stray sheep when his kind were alone the true meaning of human, prayed for a hurtful, atoning end upon all who claim themselves to be men in a world of seething abominations.

 
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I wonder if this is the true end

 

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A sorry creature, reduced to a pitiful state, now less beast than man but still in his conscience he knew that there was no forgiveness for his crimes. Was this what it was to truly live? To finally feel alive? To teeter on the edge of life and death, knowing that one misstep could lead to your demise? Oh, what a thrill it all was! The minstrel had sung his last song. The piper had played his last piece.

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And so too did rise one such soldier, borne of accursion that did encroach with promises of enlightenment; promises fulfilled, words unforeseen, yet unforgotten. A hand that had seen it's own destruction in flames grasped by the commands of a Greater, the Vicar, and a hand that had been reborn in tumultuous torment borne of repentance and retribution forged in ruin and agony. A hand, that now, held naught; naught but an inkling of hope for a GOD that would not answer.

 

The toll of a knell, for one's death, but a death that could not truly be sanctified as truth. Was it truly to be? To be not?

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