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 Stolen Majesty (sorry, formatting is off) 
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Goron Warrior
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Joined: Mon Nov 26, 2007 3:44 pm
Posts: 577
Location: In the absent spirited corners of the universe
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Post Stolen Majesty (sorry, formatting is off) • Posted: Fri Jan 21, 2011 8:35 pm
A dark, ominous night befell the Valley. An acidic fog rolled into the crevice, turning any form of life into a blistering contortionist. Roads remained unpaved and trees were twisted in ungodly patterns. The skies were overcast in darkness, the sun failed to push through. Multi-tone croaks and crows unleashed themselves upon the air and glowing eyes pierced the shadows.
A single man walked forth along the sodden dirt road; his shoes sticking into the ground beneath him. With each step, he wrenched his leg upward, freeing his expensive black leather shoes from the muck. Unpleasantly, the sound of mud reconvening rang throughout the quagmire; but each step also brought him closer to his destination: the center of the metaphorical death camp.
Demonic was his smirk. His hands made their way casually into his jacket pockets. He had arrived at the entrance. Two run-down stone pillars stood erect from the miry gutters. Between them a spring-iron gate had been released from one hinge at the top, preventing entry. The man raised his knee slowly, placing his foot on the disjointed gate. His lungs filled slowly, heaving his chest. He closed his eyes. In one motion he released the air, grunting as he did so. He kicked his leg out fully, jerked open his eyes open while raising his eyebrows involuntarily. The iron work broke its last rust infused hinge and dropped after teetering for a few moments.
He lowered his leg, removed one hand from its pocket, and dusted off the shoulders of his suit. Proceeding forward he re-placed the hand as his nose twitched. The fog swirled behind him, eddying and mixing, yet he remained unaffected by it.
The path continued on for only a few feet, then descended by way of granite steps. He removed his shoes before beginning his descent.
Air got colder. It felt sharp to breath in, and burned to breath out. With the temperature drop, came something unusual. The air was not getting thicker, or more humid, but rather its antithesis. It wasn’t holding moisture at all because the lower the stairs went, the thinner the air became.
He grabbed his forehead. Baring his teeth in pain, he began to count the steps he had left to take. One…Two…Three…Four… Too many… His body had not acclimated. It dropped. Those four steps that seemed would take forever only seconds ago, took only a split second to conquer when his body was limp. A few moments passed as he lay there, unmoving on the ground.
Finally, after what seemed only an instant to him, he awoke. He stood slowly, clenching in pain. He made his way forward, hunched over and bleeding from his head. A stone altar glistened, though there was no light. As he moved closer to the statue, whispers began to surround him. They got louder as he got nearer.
When he stopped, he was a mere foot and a half from the base of the altar. The previous whispers had stopped. Completely. It took him a moment, but he noticed that it was dead silent. He pondered for a moment about this, then shrugged as though he had found rationale not to pay heed. His fingers were as ice, and his body as a blank wasteland. He could not think clearly and his body, therefore, could not perform properly. His arm extended hesitantly, reaching to place his blue tinted hand upon the stone. He was close; two, maybe three inches away before a nose appeared in his periphery. It was long, and pointed, leading back to an otherwise well formed face.
“What did I tell you? You came this far, and yet you have not been harmed, save for that small wound on your head.” This thing’s lips had moved, and released a chocolate smooth voice that could have been rendered into the purest of onyx and gold. It laughed. “And if you touch that stone, you shall not surely die; but rather you shall live in life’s best of luxuries and rule over those who speak ill of you.”
“What now then?”
“In due time young one, in due time.” The deep voice withered and the creature stepped backward into the shadows of the grim wall-face.
He called me a boy. I am not young. Twenty-five years of following and I receive nothing? To hell with this travesty.
The man had begun to think. He had failed to recall that he was in a cavern, and his body was being torn apart by the thin atmosphere. It was time he had left. And so he did. The white fog entangled his feet; the echo of each step bounced off of the walls, returning to their creator. He was tired. The intense stress on his body had optimally distraught both his physical, and his mental being.
Mognarti, why dost thou speak so? Why dost thou taunt me? Hath I done naught but please you? For why am I tortured?
Ten stories upward, and he had gained no ground. Still, he spoke to himself his own questions, and still, he held no answers.
Granite scuffed his toes. His feet felt as though held upon a thousand red coals. Each second heralded another knock against the inside of his forehead. The air began thickening, creating a drowning sensation for the miserable man. He had reached the top, purging the contents of his stomach and crawling over the lip of the staircase. He refused to care of what he placed his hands and knees in. He crawled for his own safety. The spiral stairs would retract soon, and if he were not clear, he would lose very valuable things.
A tremor erupted. Trees shook as creatures sprinted away. The valley walls appeared to move as they ran. He looked at them, chuckling.
Stupid animals.
The staircase slammed, filling the hole in the ground. He staggered to his feet. Slowly he erected himself and began to walk. After putting his shoes back on, he passed the stone pillars, trudged the swamp road, and untangled himself from vines and weeds, only to find that his horse, which pulled his rickshaw, had escaped his ties.
Damn it.
He dropped to his knees, and fell to the side.
This is beyond the peril’s call. I need not suffer this way for my faith. Where stands my reward? In what chest dost it lie?
It began to rain. As if the clouds had sympathized and commenced crying. Eyelids shielded part of his vision. He blinked one eye at a time. With each closure, they covered more of the hideous scenery until they had completely closed, and he had fallen to sleep. He would stand and fight the crowds on the morrow; it was not worth the risk for this night. He bode the day adieu.

~~

Pain shot through his face like lightning in the night sky. It hit again, and he opened his eyes. A Brown shaded bird cocked its head to the side and pecked his eyebrow. He flinched, scaring the bird into flight.
Damn Waxwing. He thought. “Now here stands the entertaining part of my trip: hitchhiking. Who the hell knows who will stop for me.” He mumbled exasperatedly. “Just put one foot in front of the other.” While beginning to sing, he walked.
Nothing to do now, but stick out my thumb and pray for the best.
For hours he walked with no one passing by, let alone anyone who would stop for him. Drained of energy, he was ready to repeat his incident in the pit. The sun was hot and the ground was hotter. He was sweating, and losing hope for a savior when he finally heard the crackling of horseshoes and wooden wheels on the rock chips. He whipped his head around so fast that the sweat made a rancid, drenched halo. He wasn’t hearing things! A carriage drove closer to him, slowly, but surely. It pulled closer, and he hollered for them to stop. It acquiesced his request, and came to a halt. It was extravagant. Obviously belonging to a lord or lady of the Eastern British hemisphere.
“Thank you for stopping! Thank you so much!”
“Not a problem. A soul can be scorched out here in the Devil’s playground.”
“You have no idea-” He stopped. That voice. It was him.
“That’s right. I told you, in due time, you’d have your reward.”
“You left me out here to die! I have followed you for years and never have I been left for dead! You have always saved me from harm!”
“If you feel nothing, then it is not faith, it is idiocy.”
“You said nothing of trouble, or pain.”
“You said you would follow without question.”
“That was before you caused pain!” Mognarti raised a hand across the man’s face. It rang as board would against a raw beef carcass.
“Bite not the hand that feeds you boy! You may find that the pains of life are far worse than the hell I can create.” He said through his teeth. “This coach will take you to the nearest town. Take this, and clean up, you look revolting.” He flicked something into the man’s lap. He held it limply to his face. It was a silver coin. His eyes quickly changed focus when he realized that Mognarti, though seemingly cumbersome and looming, had disappeared.
“Damn it! Why is it that whenever you face me, I get nothing in return but a petty coin?! Where is this reward? The women?! The money?! If I could capture you, the hell I would unleash would rip your soul from limb to limb!”
“Capture is impossible against me. I am as smoke, you are as a rope is to a god: insignificant.” The voice infiltrated his head, whispering a shiver into his bones. “Disobey me again, and you shall surely reap a stiff reward that you will not soon appreciate.”
“I’ll bet”
“Actions are not as words child, actions sting.”
“Be gone!”

Silence.

It wasn’t over. He knew that. The darkness would come. Love would dissipate. Mognarti would reign. We would all die. The one they all feared, this “God”, would tremble, and the kingdom would fall to that of the true supreme. It’s what Mognarti needed him for. A catalyst. A ruler is only as strong as his followers. And at the moment, he was the only follower to speak of. He was the only one that would do anything worth noticing.
The carriage halted. Dust settled, and he opened the door. As he stepped out, he looked upward at the nearest building. He chuckled. How ironic; it was a church.
The sun beat down brutally. His face was red, and his eyes were dilated. He stumbled. Even after his two hour carriage ride, the heat had still exhausted him, and he needed food. He kicked up the sand with the toes of his shoes, he was too tired to lift his feet more. He walked into the nearest bar, or so he assumed by the lack of dignified women, the scent of alcohol and the pissed off looks he received on entry. The bar tender didn’t care. He saw the coin and told him to sit down. He found a chair, and collapsed on it. The tender walked over.
“Looks like you need food and a bath.” He looked at the exhausted man. “And some new clothes.”
“This is what I’ve got.” He slammed the coin on the table. “Give me everything you just said.” The bar tender grabbed the coin and bit it.
“Seems like you’re good for your money. Margaret, get the man some food! John, draw the bath! We gotcha covered boy.”
He ate first, bathed later, and walked away a new man, with a new suit. He was surprisingly comfortable in the black slacks, vest and white shirt. The tie was a little much though.
He heard yelling. His ear twitched and he turned his head, only to receive a leather-bound book in his face. A boy ran past sucking in air like a racing dog. Townspeople ran up and grabbed the book.
“Lay your hands on our Bible again, and you’re sure to burn in Hell!”
“I’m sorry, that boy- wait. Bible?” His eyes grew wide. The church-goers cocked their heads to side and awkwardly looked at him. A whirlwind of air shot through the group and nailed him in the chest, instantly turning him to smoke. The air carried the sound as thunder when it passed, and lightning when it hit him. The ground charred in a line beneath where he stood, and the townspeople dropped to their knees and hands in prayer. They didn’t wish that fate on any other.
Meanwhile, he integrated in a chasm. Much like the one he had been to previously, but lighter. A mysterious glow glistened from the sand. The ceiling was pitch black, and the walls were a navy shade. The wind came again, hitting him into the wall, but holding him up, three feet above the ground. It remained stationary, while forming an outline. The mass congealed. Black flecks of what seemed to be small shards of glass rose from the outline. They started to rise slowly, then moved faster as they moved higher. With each shard gone, a figure was revealed more and more beneath. Eyes shot open near the top of it. They were yellow. Teeth bared and nostrils flared, Mognarti was pissed.
“I told you not to go near a Bible, let alone touch one!”
“No! The kid threw it at me! I couldn’t get rid of it!”
“No excuses!” He released. “I am sick of this disobedience. It is getting out of hand, and I will not have it. Here is your stiff reward Desmond.”
“Wait!” Mognarti snapped his fingers. Desmond went up in flames. The pain seared as fire should, and his body turned to ash in its place. Darkness engulfed him. The pain was gone. He was still alive, his body reintegrated. He noticed a piece of parchment on his body as he lay down. He mumbled it aloud:

Born again from his ashes.

He stood absent-mindedly. He was in a daze, almost hung over, and bleached white. He was in a dark room. The air was as ice on his skin and his spine trembled. He ached, as if he had lain in bed for days without moving.
“Alright, just like before. One foot in front of the other.” He muttered. One leg lifted painfully. It was as heavy as lead. He used his arms to pull his thigh up, hefting the leg up and forward; he repeated the process for the other leg. He was slow, but he was making progress towards what he made out to be a door. “Why is it so far away? That’s way too much work.” He thought egocentrically. Painstakingly, he made his way forth. Each movement ate at him like a parasite. What seemed like hours passed, and he reached the door, by dragging himself with his arms. His shuttered as it tilted to look at the panel. It was…fake.
A wall, designed to mimic the look of a door, stood erect in front of him. He searched each panel, they were all the exact same. None were doors. False hope. Mognarti won. It was over. Desmond rested his head on the ground. He was going to be there for a while; so, why not ease into his eternal suffering? A crash resonated through the room. It was muffled, as though it had come through the walls.
“Damn eht, Mahcus! I told you hang on to the damn thing!”
A man! His accent was obscure, but there was another man here! Everyone else was wrong! Hell was not solitude! It had multiple people! Desmond forgot his agony and pushed off the ground, springing to the wall and banging on it, yelling for release.
“Oi Mahcus, cahm ‘ere. Lissen!” The banging began again. “Op’n eht ahp ya ijit!” Marcus fumbled over his keys. The jingling set the prisoner’s heart racing. Metal clashing with metal in a nervous shake built the tension in the air. The tumblers in the lock turned, shifting the dead-bolt in the door inward, allowing the doors to swing open. Desmond was on his knees, hair in knots and eyes glazed in the light of the extravagant staircase. He sat there, awestruck at the Persian style rug that ran down the center of the steps, and even more-so at the men who wore gray pieces of cloth that seemed to cover their entire bodies.
“Who are ya, son? And how’d you get in there?”
“Mahcus, shot ahp. Imma do da tahken.”
“David, shut the hell up, what? You think you’re my boss? Get out of here!” Marcus turned to Desmond. “I’m sorry for my coworker, he’s a little off. Man, how’d you get in there, seriously?” Desmond stuttered, befuddled with what to say.
“I awoke in there. Why are you here?”
“I work here, man. What do you mean, you woke up in there?”
“I do not know. At one minute, I was being attacked by Mognarti, the next, I awoke in there, on that pedestal in the room.”
“Yeah, alright, sure. I’ll buy that, c’mon man, I don’t have time for this.” Marcus went to grab the scoundrel, and noticed his clothes. “Hey man, where’d you get them clothes, you look like you’re from the Seventeen Hundreds.”

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Know Naught, Love Naught, Judge Naught.


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