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The Prophet and His General He stands there. Utter's First General, its Grand Prophet's right hand, the second most powerful man in the state. There are few laurels adorning his uniform, little indication of his rank at all. It is a poignant reminder that he need never introduce himself, and one of many subtleties a man weighed by the concerns of Uegyre and all her nations must possess. Yet, somehow, he doesn't cut a foreboding figure. There is a grin ironic and debonair on that face, and it has eyes that have laughed at it all for decades because otherwise they would have shattered. As it is with all men who know themselves, he does not seem wholly serious, even though everything he faces he faces with his whole attention, his whole focus, a will so narrowly trained that no raith nor Fate nor even god could shatter it.The Prophet and His General  by tatterdemalioncandle
When that focus is on the boy, he feels certain. He is no longer afraid to ask the question on his mind, the one he had feared mockery for.
"Why am I here?"
The general moves away from a window
The Prophet and his General Lt. Kristoff watched the shadow on his wristdial shamble gradually toward a moment of dread realization, and he wondered that the small grey tendril didn't quiver. Rather, it progressed hairsbreadth by hairsbreath, despite the certainty of that which lay ahead. He prayed by Fate and all its spirits that he, too, possessed that stoicism-- without, if not within. Yes... if he had any real strength left within he would have been wrapped in his schracke,, he would have been mumbling dreams into the cocoon's fur interior and leaving his protection to the care of its treated leather skin.The Prophet and his General  by tatterdemalioncandle
Instead he was here, his men and the fire their metamatter camouflaged to his back and his face turned to the gelid night, aching beneath the ravages of its lightless expanse and the soft wind biting at his drawn features. He’d hoped that sting would distract him from all the horrors gnawing his gut. But then, so few of the wishes he'd uttered over the course of his short life had ever rallied
The Prophet and his General An atri. That's what I feel like. Zekkar's own atri. Wearing another's eyes and skin, skulking toward a new, simpler world with every aim of obliterating it. And for what? The delusion of control, of a dream of greater peace and prosperity? Oh, how the trees glare down. They must have seen a thousand fevered souls like me-- they must long to uproot themselves and crush me before I can wreak worse on this world with my fumbling hands. Then, maybe they're apathetic. Greater men than I have made mistakes, and the world recovered just fine from them-- no, recovery suggests a return to a former state. And that, too, is a myth. Things can never go back to what they were. We don't recover, we rebuild. No matter how much greater the result, is there not an unquenchable sorrow in what was lost?The Prophet and his General  by tatterdemalioncandle
Rue above, I'm not ready for this. Good that I didn't sleep. What would I do if I overcame the inertia driving me ahead? There's no fleeing, now. I need to quiet my mind. I'm here to observe, for now.
The Prophet and His General "I-- no lay and eat only, anymore."The Prophet and His General  by tatterdemalioncandle
The weary demand battled to form itself, writhing out from between dry, awkward lips. It screeched over the stone walls of the cavern, and then clashed with the longsword hanging over the exit. Even the lanterns overhead seemed to flinch, their ruddy glow abandoning the speaker for the briefest of instants to the dark of the subterranean, the leagues of mountain overhead threatening to bury him.
His companion, however, met him with a face of indifference-- sardonic indifference, which was to say that a pale brow quirked itself at his mangled string of Yggdraeil. The brow belonged to an uncanny woman. She was angled, her bones poking from her white skin, but she possessed a graceful figure that men with proclivities opposite that of her ward would have appreciated in more than an aesthetic sense. When the foreigner below had spoken she had shifted, a worn cloth dress little too big slipping to bare her other shoulder as she surveyed his brittl
The Prophet and His General Lyle sat in an alcove he’d claimed for himself, and he took a deeper breath than any he’d dared for a fortnight. His isolation, the auspices of solitude, were necessary just then. Everything was too close. So many years he’d stood prematurely aged, at a distance from it all. Yet, since his trial before the Yggdraeil elders he’d been as a child again. Everything was heady and personal-- worse, even, than his woe-begotten youth. Back then, before he’d seen his fifth season of life, the threshold between the world and his will had been ephemeral at best; his every act had been the mandate of nature. Now, though... Now he was not a part of the weight. He bore it, and it crushed him slowly.The Prophet and His General  by tatterdemalioncandle
How easy it would be to free himself. The strictly moral action in his position was inaction—he should avoid betraying his nation, and likewise stay from abetting the slaughter of a large portion of the Yggdraeil. There would be no blood on his hands. Both sides were r
PuffFunny now to think of then,
rain beating on plastic, the off-kilter metronome of nature and
its habit of not keeping time. The cigarettes are
being burned and the air is being brought in
and the mosquitoes are sucking blood from my back.
The light from the neighbor’s house is invading
my peripherals and every so often I think something
is interrupting them. I can hear the cows
nibbling at the earth and the dog chasing
moths in the garage. Is it too much to ask
that it stay like this forever, quiet night,
the world stopping to have a smoke?
Orpheus and Eurydice story: A retellingI Am what I am.
In your world ones like me cannot be seen anymore. We are looked upon as lumber or paper. Fodder for your fireplaces and splinters to pick your teeth.
I am a dryad, a wood nymph, or forest faery.
However you wish to think of me, I am what I am.
What I am is dead.
I swirl around in the underworld in my own private torment for all time with no hope of being set free. Not anymore at least. Maybe I should start at the beginning. The same place I go back to day in and day out to relive over and over again. See, this is my private hell. To see my life, my hopes, my dreams flutter away on the wind like a butterfly's wings. That is not the hardest most painful part though. Nothing can compare to the doubt of your one true love.
My name is Eurydice. Or at least it was.
My time had begun when I was just a seedling. As I grew into a sapling and sprouted new leaves I would giggle at the way the West Wind would play through them. When it rained I would delight in how it would tickle
LW: Bad Joke (Drabble)It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke: a priest and a general walk down a corridor.LW: Bad Joke (Drabble) by Jake-Sjet
To one side of the pair, through the great arching colonnades that lined the open wall of the corridor, the massive courtyard of the Emperors Seat stretched out along side them a half league by double that. Great black and white marble slabs lay in a chequerboard pattern there, their surfaces scuffed by the day’s passage of harsh winds and hurried feet. But come the morning the slabs would shine as the small army of slaves worked through the night to buff and polish the fine stone work until it had a mirror finish. To their right a simple stone wall, rather utilitarian given its location within the centre of the Inland Empire’s government, but the stout wooden doors that lead away into the interior were doors into that same power.
The marble was looked down upon by the upper classes of Imperial society, whilst those that worked to preserve it did so with more humble means.
The priest o