To Havoc

[Pallodium 3776]

Spoiler

 

जातस्य हि ध्रुवो मृत्युर्ध्रुवं जन्म मृतस्य च |

तस्मादपरिहार्येऽर्थे न त्वं शोचितुमर्हसि ||

 

“Death is a certainty for one who has been born, yet in death is rebirth inevitable- therefore, one should not lament over the inevitable.”

- The Bhagavad Gita

 

 

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Torn and tattered, did a flayed roll of parchment crest and fall through the harrowed continent of Aevos. Bore by a pygmy drake, the scroll held by the miniscule wyvern was battered by sheet after sheet of the sickly effervescent storms which sloughed down from Orsathiael’s twisted influence.

 

It came to rest before a Veythist nephilim, searing the letter within their palms; singing the very words. Curled into a slumber, it sloughed and emboldened into whitened-azure flames, returning to its nest; the letter it bore gleamed in somber lights, etched in High Draconic:

@woozerly

 

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Ylirim,

 

Your halls drape themselves in stagnation, while your brethren enrapture in slumber. I have watched the Serpent stir- watched it rise in radiant plumes, only to twist inwards and collapse, its body shattering into fragments cast wide across their remnants. Where once its essence coursed like fire through the veins of culture, it now lies scattered, absorbed and forgotten by those unworthy of its truth. And where are you in this decay? Where is your vigilance, your insight, the legacy that once pulsed so vividly within the keep you called your own? You were entrusted with fragments of brilliance, entrusted to shape them into something eternal- and yet, you let them fall, forgotten beneath the dust of your own hesitation. You showed me vision once- decades past- but where is it now? What remains but hollow echoes of a name, and a banner left to rot without wind or palm to carry it?

 

Tᴏ ᴡᴀᴠᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀɪʟ. Tᴏ ꜰᴀʟʟ ɪꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ.

Bᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴇʀꜱɪꜱᴛ- ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜᴍᴇ, ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴀʀɴ, ᴛᴏ ʀɪꜱᴇ-

ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ Sᴇʀᴘᴇɴᴛ.

 

Yet no persistence has been sighted. There is no hunger in you now, no drive to consume or transmute what lies broken. You waver in daylight while the world moves forward, blind to the absence of your fire. So I demand more- not silence, not dormancy, but action. I demand that you rise, that you learn, that you burn. Bring me the Oriflamme. Let it serve a purpose once again. Let it be lifted by a voice that will not fade with time, one that will carry the Serpent’s path into the marrow of the eras to come. Let it be reborn in the hands of one whose will does not splinter, one whose ambition mirrors your own- before you forgot how to wield it- or remain as you are, dust in your throat, silence in your mouth, and be remembered no longer.

 

– Izel

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दातव्यमिति यद्दानं दीयतेऽनुपकारिणे।

देशे काले च पात्रे च तद्दानं सात्त्विकं स्मृतम्॥

 

“That which is given as a matter of obligations, at the right place and time, to a person of act- such is considered to be in the mode of utter duty.”

- The Bhagavad Gita

[lemonke 6014]

Spoiler

Havoc yourself some bitchez

 

[frvma 1014]

A note found its way somehow to the author. Carried in the maw of a Serpent wrapped in the procession of a writhing mass of slithering scales and tongues. The paper was rolled, smooth and dusted with ash. High Draconic words written and scratched in charcoal sat on the page, leaving their dust in the wind as it was read.

 

My vision rests upon the same altar that it always has. It speaks in tandem with the same fated riddles of our Father. Ash and Stone dance as one in Perfection. Sight and Faith see as all do in Eternity. Flame and Scale entwine upon themselves into Light yet unbent and unbroken.

 

What is left of a Man, a Creature left to its devices through the Sins of the Father that have come to pass? What is left of a Creature that is designed for War, Thought, Flame and Stone? But left to the idle passage of Time and Domesticity?

 

It speaks of blackened Suns and Stars, the End of All Things, but yet leaves no answer, no guidance. The riddle given to me by Darkness. Faith in all and the Blackness of Bithe'vah. My family is silent, I and my past share the same halls, the same visions, the same Flame. It is Time they speak, and speak does Time.  

 

Time ebbs and flows, that is what it does. You wish to see Purpose be made anew? Then you will kneel to my Banner if you share the same vision of Me. You awaken me from my slumber and meditations, and that I thank you for, truly. But if you wish for the Banner? Then peel the figure of my rebirth from my stoned hands and ashen scales. 

 

 

And a great burning Star fell from the sky,

and a Mountain fell into the Sea and the Water turned to Blood.

And the Stars and Sun turned Black.

Beyond the Sun,

in the darkness behind the Stars

I saw the face of a God,

a shape and colour the Words 

cannot describe.

I saw the Six Sides of the World

unfold and the Light engulfed Me.

I had become One with Nothing,

where Life and Death are meaningless.

And I saw

the Sixth Seal broken

and the World shook

and the Sun turned Black

and the Moon like Blood

and the Stars fell from Heaven.

Songs that I shall sing,

Where flap the tatters of the King.

Song of My Soul.

 

 

- Ylirim.

 

[Pallodium 3776]

Spoiler

 

कालोऽस्मि लोकक्षयकृत्प्रवृद्धो लोकान्समाहर्तुमिह प्रवृत्त: |

ऋतेऽपि त्वां न भविष्यन्ति सर्वे येऽवस्थिता: प्रत्यनीकेषु योधा: ||

 

“And it is Time, the source of destruction that comes hither unto annihilation. Even without your participation, those arrayed shall cease to exist.”

- The Bhagavad Gita

 

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The parchment, ostensibly still nearby such a nephilim, shuddered without warning. The very fibers of the scroll thrummed and sang, as words gave way to fire- consuming and wiping over the scroll besides the Veythist nephilim in shrouds of gilded azurity. It arose- propped upon ribbons of archaic pyres- dangling in the air as the page blackened a dim-onyx and radiant lights pierced forth.

 

Three solemn words shone where paragraphs of detailed prose once lay; etched in somber, unchanging writ. Emotion spurned within your mind as you stared at the baleful parchment. You could see a smile, gazing from the beyond. An expression both horrendously inhuman, and inexplicably beautiful in twain. A radiance laced the terse phrase- a brilliant maelstrom of light comparable to only a hundred suns' fury, igniting the astral skies:

 

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ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ɴ   ᴄ ᴏ ᴍ ᴇ   ꜰ ᴏ ʀ ᴛ ʜ .

 

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