“Call these images
forth for these fools! Allow bloody earth and sap-filled veins to
enter their eyes! No cauldrons bubble, but they crumble! A wicked
king's head babbles nonsense from their twisted innards! Establish
now the walls, those consisting of the limbs of the fallen, around
and above those who dare cast us out! Snare them in our power! Keep
them silenced!”
The skies are
blocked by soft pavement. The disturbing lack of thunder acts as a
coffin for those who fear it. Thoughts of being struck down by the
sound corrupt their minds and cement their aversion to the world
beyond their shelter. From within what they call a tavern, they
discuss all it is that they believe to know. If they waited for true
understanding, they would never speak.
“Weird. It's just
weird. These clouds look heavy enough to crush our hopes and dreams,
so why isn't it raining?” The stranger questions those who are
familiar. He is known as Sarazin and is, in fact, a native to the
place. His birth occurred in the backroom of the kitchen, which
mainly consisted of drunks who were unable to walk home. His mother
was one of them. For some time, it was told to him that he is blessed
by the gods, that they rescued him. But none witnessed the birth. His
mother had come into nothingness in bringing him into being, and the
others were not conscious of the event. His story is known to all
across the town, and yet, he remains a stranger still.
“The gods are
angry at us! Did you not see them upon the hill?” One of the
familiars of the tavern responds with sickening certainty. The
familiar, a tall male worshipper with no distinguishable features,
gazes upon Sarazin in search of weakness. All the familiar finds is
individuality. Sarazin is only slightly shorter than the other, but
carries upon himself a much larger body. To most it seems that his
body purely consists of fat, as opposed to possessing muscle. But
most, as usual, are mistaken. Sarazin had once lifted weights for
entertainment. Some of the strength he obtained during that time
still remains.
“They're just
mortals like us. Don't be silly.” As Sarazin's lips move to allow
the projectiles of the tongue shoot out, his scar is condensed
against his eyelid. The pinkish mark is a result of Sarazin's
graveyard work. His task is simple. He simply has to wait for the
dead ringers to awake. Before he began, they were less common, but
now they are more common. The scar was formed when his shovel was
thrown at him by a mourner of a soon to be dead ringer. When the
haunting sound resonated through the graveyard, the mourner ceased
all actions. Sarazin rushed to his shovel and supposed the mourner
wished to save his friend, but instead, the familiar screamed at him
to leave it be. A simple movement sent the shovel into Sarazin's
face, leaving nothing but the scar between his right eye and upper
lip. Whispers of the hurtful sort occurred commonly involving his
scar. When his ears caught the said waves, he simply disregarded it.
Back in the
present, the tall familiar steals a step away from the one different
from all others. “Leave us! You'll bring doom upon us all!” The
same one screams, his voice bounding with fear. He shoves at Sarazin
and attempts to throw him out of the run-down tavern. Failure haunts
his thin size. The stranger does not do battle with the familiar. In
slow, honest, movements, he collects his things. He places his large
black round hat with low bending ends over his shining bald head. The
external light is cut off from his eyes. The internal remains.
No condensed and
broken pieces of the sky-cement tumble to the ground. The form
remains stiff and unmoving, but time shatters all things. The town
cannot be seen, except for a few lit windows, coming from small
shacks characteristic of the ruled. Sarazin's hard leather boots come
upon the stone paths that were grass before they came. Time wore the
grass to dirt, and those of the hill had the familiars place the
stones to create the illusion of domination over the ticking. His
blackened coat brushes the tavern door to a partial clean. The filth
remains. It always does.
All Sarazin can
truly distinguish from the familiar darkness is the candle of power.
Around it stands its slaves, those who cursed the town. No more than
a broken whisper comes from their lips. It snares them in place for
the stranger to overthrow them. Each step is a letter that combines
with the last. Each slow and drawn-out breath is a space between the
words. The message is clear to those on the hill, but it is black ink
to him. They know the words and he understands the meaning.
Flight may be a
viable option for those huddled around the thin spark of power, but
the sky-cement hangs over them as well. Sarazin slowly and carefully
writes out the letter. Occasional steps signify periods. The final
period comes and goes. Their letter of resignation has been written.
He faes the short and skinny men, who possess no physical attributes
that are greater than Sarazin's. Their dress is one of formality and
business, not of practicality. ]
The stranger bends
over and hushes the flame into permanent sleep. The sky breaks apart
and cackles with amusement. The liquid cement of the body falls onto
the four silent men.
It has been done.
-Zero
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