Morviktus Von Straum
02-16-08, 09:35 PM
The baroque facade that was the Scarabrian temple loomed in the distance. A path of simple cobblestone, it's elegance and beauty far removed from that of the temple ahead, lead directly to the door. Morviktus knew what had to be done, and knew quite well what would happen when he did. Yet he pressed on.
Was it bravery?
Bravery, what is bravery? Was it brave to walk in the light as the commonfolk recoiled in horror? was it brave to continue living, even when the gods themselves desired you dead? Bravery seemed such a trivial thing to Morviktus, he disregarded the thought, he was not brave.
He was foolish.
So he took those fool's steps. Two swift strides through the door of the temple, and it began. His skin crawled, his flesh was aflame, a searing pain coursed along his scars. This was hallowed ground, and it would not tolerate his presence. Yet, he had a mission, and he would not be denied. He pressed onward, each step ingiting a flair under within his withered body. He could hear it now, hear and smell the searing of his flesh. It meant nothing. The altar drew near, he was close now, so close, he must simply endure the pain. More steps, faster, harder, more pain. This was the way it had to be.
He knelt.
The altar before him, glorious in it's simplicity, elegant in it's design, glistened faintly in the dim torchlight. Whatever heathen gods paid him heed, they would listen this day.
Legion gods, wisdom absolute, mercy unlimited, hear me this day as I have suffered to much earn your attention...
As he knelt, shooting pains flowed through his legs, exposed and bare upon the scorching stone. His robe afforded no protection.
... Bless those who look upon me gods, so that they may not collapse in disgust. Bless those who lay hands upon me gods, so they may remain pure even as my flesh corrupts...
The agony grew, they were listening, they were not pleased. His words, at first inaudible mumbles, had grown to howls through clenched teeth. He called his prayer into the silent night as he burned.
... Bless those who speak unto me, gods, lest they become impure, as am I...
He grew dizzy, his stomach churned. It was too much, the pain was too much.
... Bless me gods, so I may be slain. As is my destiny, as are my just deserts, let me be slain...
Prostrating himself upon the floor in a sign of respect, then stood once more and made his way for the door. Steps upon brimstone, feet afire. It surged through him, his very essence blazing. The door grew close, salvation, freedom...
He collapsed upon the threshold, dragging himself feebly to the cool grass. The night's prayers were done. He would endure in the daylight hours, and pray again at sunset. It seemed almost comical in it's stupidity. What gods would hear him? who would listen?
He laughed. Dry, empty, rasping. His throat belched humorlessly, reverberating through the night air.
Who will listen?
Was it bravery?
Bravery, what is bravery? Was it brave to walk in the light as the commonfolk recoiled in horror? was it brave to continue living, even when the gods themselves desired you dead? Bravery seemed such a trivial thing to Morviktus, he disregarded the thought, he was not brave.
He was foolish.
So he took those fool's steps. Two swift strides through the door of the temple, and it began. His skin crawled, his flesh was aflame, a searing pain coursed along his scars. This was hallowed ground, and it would not tolerate his presence. Yet, he had a mission, and he would not be denied. He pressed onward, each step ingiting a flair under within his withered body. He could hear it now, hear and smell the searing of his flesh. It meant nothing. The altar drew near, he was close now, so close, he must simply endure the pain. More steps, faster, harder, more pain. This was the way it had to be.
He knelt.
The altar before him, glorious in it's simplicity, elegant in it's design, glistened faintly in the dim torchlight. Whatever heathen gods paid him heed, they would listen this day.
Legion gods, wisdom absolute, mercy unlimited, hear me this day as I have suffered to much earn your attention...
As he knelt, shooting pains flowed through his legs, exposed and bare upon the scorching stone. His robe afforded no protection.
... Bless those who look upon me gods, so that they may not collapse in disgust. Bless those who lay hands upon me gods, so they may remain pure even as my flesh corrupts...
The agony grew, they were listening, they were not pleased. His words, at first inaudible mumbles, had grown to howls through clenched teeth. He called his prayer into the silent night as he burned.
... Bless those who speak unto me, gods, lest they become impure, as am I...
He grew dizzy, his stomach churned. It was too much, the pain was too much.
... Bless me gods, so I may be slain. As is my destiny, as are my just deserts, let me be slain...
Prostrating himself upon the floor in a sign of respect, then stood once more and made his way for the door. Steps upon brimstone, feet afire. It surged through him, his very essence blazing. The door grew close, salvation, freedom...
He collapsed upon the threshold, dragging himself feebly to the cool grass. The night's prayers were done. He would endure in the daylight hours, and pray again at sunset. It seemed almost comical in it's stupidity. What gods would hear him? who would listen?
He laughed. Dry, empty, rasping. His throat belched humorlessly, reverberating through the night air.
Who will listen?