PHQ-Nickname:
hollow
Halfquake:
Radical Perfection
Level:
21
Total kills:
711,304
Birthday:
September 25th 1985
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| The world is old and dying |
| Mood: | dead |
| Type: | Story |
| Added: | November 28th 2005, 22:46:46 |
| Visits: | 1138 |
| Rating: | Not rated yet. |
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"The world is old and dying" was the only thing that I could overhear from the crowded arms staring at one another below our flat. What little noise carried came through a large crack in the building that started three floors up and from three feet narrowed to nothing halfway down our wall, taking most of a windowframe with it. We did not dare raise any of our unbroken panes, the better to not raise attention on ourselves. I wasn ' t interested. I wanted to lie on our mattresses and rest until I died. * was, for some reason, and was looking with some kind of boldness through the crack intermittantly. I was not so hasty with my life. Almost immediately, he lay down. I looked through a window. They ' ll see if you surrender after they drop the first.
About thirty wastes of time are milling about in an unexciting field. Some kind of leader, no doubt a second in command, was sauntering towards the stairs to our floor. The rest continued to act edgy one at another. That ' s all anyone did, to pass the time. We would get no rest. Even * looked ill at ease, his whole body an shaky repitition of his crumpled and jagged nape. The behemoth entered the room, carried on the clear sailing of his large rifle. His almost friendly speech was one of oppression and bullying, but the old kind. The kind that smiled and did it only if you didn ' t do it to yourself first. His boss was ruling by fear first, and violence after. Not as a secondary action to the fear, it was more supplementary than optional.
"now, my boss has already laid stake on this fine building, friends, and regrettably as it is," he is parading across our small number, interrupting himself by 'How you doin?'-ing each of us as he passed. "bands like you would only get in the way of his grand restoration of our world. Personally, I would head south, to a temple." We had been heading, and they had been woulding, south, for all my life. East and west weren ' t options, and backtracking was always death. Seemed no one liked a familiar face, anymore. This temple, we would head there. It was the only option besides the many flavours of Draino Tea. He had told us his name, at some point. We followed him down the stairs, and walked south. We ' d be able to see whatever it was about which he was talking.
It was blue, and it was green. And it was almost completely burned down. The ground itself had seen a vision of its life, and by so doing, enacted it in reverse, to the completion of the blueprints in photorealistic detail on the land. Flat and brown, there could be traced many paths, taken by many path-followers. The most promising led to the one wing that seemed to still stand and keep a most of a roof, amazing among such a complete razing. There was one pathway, the walls to either side descending and rising like tides, to some rule for the path of affliction that hard handedly spared this small passage. Rooms that ought to be cut from the passageway occasionally broke free of the destruction to contain broken chairs and more obsure rotten wood. * and * followed. We were decimated below "few". This could be the last home.
The end of the path, a door, on the far side of a rectangler room with a slightly less lengthy halfmoon space on the far side. scrolls stood on end on top of neat tables that seemed to be made to hold them up. The walls shimmered. They were tiled or they were inlaid, or surely they were goldleaf. They were blue and green, and they were patterned. Beyond that I did not know. The ground was wood, and there were rugs. Looking around, the ground felt solid. It had to be, to preserve this. Pictures of stern men writing what were not stern, and a door, facing the same way as the entrance but opposite side of the room. Heavy wooden frame supported equally weighted doors, wide open to a lavish bedroom. Another desk, more scrolls. The scrolls were maps.
The temple begins to make sense to me. The tracings outside of a larger, centrally focused building are a mockery of that line of thought, put there by unkind forces who knew how this building worked. It had no focus. No point of attention. I stared at a desk to one side in the circular area. The maps were not spiritual, nothing was. This place was holistic, the attention gained was put everywhere, as was its intent. Which is where it fell apart, I was about to think. I was just on the verge of cracking from my repose, almost returning to my thoughts of just that everything, that had become a strip of a whole lot less everything, when the priest walked past and sat down on the ground. * was by the exit, * was using the rug as a bed blanket pillow, and the priestess of all things holy, which I thought instead of those other things about to occur to me, sat across from me and did nothing. The focus of the unfocused temple. She was a young girl. She couldn ' t help me.
I died in that room, it was the soul of the leprous world. |
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