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A fragment of the past from Carrion's blog

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A branch snapped beneath a heel protected by a layer of thickened skin calloused and cracking. Motes of silver light drifted like spores upon the wind, as limping legs carried her onward. Her, a strong word for the thing seeking shelter in forests that surely wished it gone.

This thing was hunched, it’s flesh clammy and cold as though it carried a pestilence deep within its core. It maintained a slow pace and followed. She. It was a she, but barely. With malnourished limbs weakened and blackened veins like blood poisoning, shifting and swelling with each heartbeat beneath the skin.

Her hair had turned to ash, thin and sparse it hung in loose, filthy clumps down her shoulders. And eyes once bright now sockets of scar tissue empty, that it was left to grope blindly in constant darkness. As a figure of regal birth strode stiff and cold at her side, with plating Saronite and visage stained Lichfire blue. He said nothing, only pushed onward as the wretch used her mutilated ears to follow.

When she coughed, he hardened. When she wheezed, he gifted her disdain. As thick strands of black mucus bubbled from her lips and dripped down her chin, and rotten teeth chattered as frost kissed the bone. They followed a path unbeaten, through woods known for eternal dusk. Where brown haired spiders hung from webs broken and rebuilt, and memories still cried in the ruins left abandoned and all but forgotten.

With rumors of the hearts death, the warlords fall. She remembered, the first taste and the first swelling. Until a meal had become a sickness and wine tasted like blood and rot. When her body started to reject fundamental needs, and welcome something intangible. And each time she fed, it burst inside her. Bruised formed, blisters of blood no longer her own.

The creature discovered agony internal, as it feasted and spread until less and less of her could be called that name. This infection to the core, this pestilence rooted. Her own mind had become the enemy, for each weakness made it grow. Each feeling, each passion. It hungered, it bloated and swelled. Until salvation was in the cold, the blizzard that alone could make her numb.

This had never been a swift thing, for years had passed and only now did death raise its ugly head and turn to gaze down upon her. But she still remembered the hearts unbeating, the moment this had all begun. With the church and teeth, the swallowing and the heavy hand. And all the days that passed since, each one a trial that lead to greater understanding.

It had not been enough. But, strength. It alone did not make the leader, nor did a lack of it make one destined to follow. It was a fightless fight and a pathless path. And the creature that lurked the forests now, still walked in the wrong direction. Perhaps that was why death would take her, in days, weeks. At most, a month. This gift was a terminal illness. It was a fatality incarnate.

Strength was the breaking heart that didn’t harden, and it was the lover who looked at no other. It was the first step taken on the battlefield, and the last. The chin held high, the chin lowered. The king upon the throne and the one at his feet. Strength was not invulnerability, it was absolute vulnerability.

When the great gate opened, she did not walk through it. Instead she had turned away. The path was turbulence, it was sickness in her stomach and a cold sweat upon the back of her neck. The path had been the method, but it was not to be the answer. The solution was out there, but weakness had yet to be purged.

She had never been smart enough, her mind too slow and heart too womanly. Twisted inside out until she was the broken, bleeding thing that stared blindly at the golden walls of shining Silvermoon nestled in the down below vally. The leader who had offered up innocents and the follower who had sacrificed more. Longing for another's conviction, where she had none.

Because those who claimed prophecy rarely understood it, they were the blind that lead the blind. And if not born, then built. For it was coming, the greatness that would swallow all with glittering husks and festering soils. And when it came, lucky few would survive with even fewer there to thrive.

And she, the last visionary of her sacred sect. The sole survivor, that she knew. Would raise up one more worthy, would take them first as a her beloved child. Until they were brother, then father. And years, and years. But first, they must know what it means to die. And with that, transcend it. It was the way, consume or be consumed. Survive, or perish. They would, or they would not.



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By Carrion
Added Dec 23 '18

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