| You're like a fading ember. Reduced to ashes, not even a blot in the tomes of history, the neglectful scrawl of an ink slinger. You aren’t going to last, you shyke. You’re just an ulcer in my gut, the tawdry crow picking at red, stringy flesh, a moth caught inside a lantern, waiting for your wings to smolder away. But perhaps you can change that. The poor, broken things bide in squalor, just more bowed heads in dismal ranks, caught up by the dire portents of who we are, and where we are going, only to take the wrong fork, caught up in a nest of serpents. That’s why we adjudicate. You know those fields, unkempt with thorny, purple weeds and the sting of nettles, or soggy with a rush of foul water? You ever hear the drag of a lank sail, flaying itself to tatters against the jib, making the prow cut through the waves ever slower? You see the sag of shingles, the crumbling of mortar? Ever feel a sundered heart? We say how to plow your fields, craft your barrels, erect your fences, even bring up your spawn, because we know better than you. Don’t fret, you’ll thank us by the end. That’s just what we do. We’re the adjudicators. And we’ll slaughter you if you don’t take heed. You’re just meat. And what, you ask, give us that right? In the end, it’s not as though we glean the fruits of divinity. We’re just a conceit, and we do it because we can, for our embers fade, and our faces, our deeds are lost. We don’t care for power, nor riches, nor glory. We bide in the rudest lodgings, drink the foulest wine, eat because we must, not for enjoyment of the task. We don’t care. We’re the arbiters. We live, while you merely dream. Y’know, anybody can transcend the shackles of their corporeal flesh, if only they sought succor. The furl of redemption. Go on, seek. You’re fading away. |
Either post here or contact me about joining. Ideally, the cult requires neutral, 'shades of gray' types.
Note: Xhyvas, the God of Possibilities and Transcendence, has been dead for thousands of years, so you won't know of him.
