pife
2014-10-08, 11:19 PM
Once, you were the Herald of Night, right hand and exalted Lieutenant of Be'lal, the Throne of the Eclipsed Moon. There are so many shades of darkness, and you created some of them yourself. Each night was different, hiding something new and wondrous to behold. That moment, between darkness and light, when the last shadow falls away and is struck by the first ray of light.. that was what discovery truly was. You were the creator and guardian of mystical wonders.. once.
Truthfully, many of your memories had already faded. How many glories can one recall, after eons, millennia, of virtual non-being and torment? You had long since given up the real and true hope that you would ever be released from your tomb, this oubliette of anguish and suffering. Never again to stand proudly before your general, Lucifer, and perform deeds the likes of which would never be seen again. You withstood it better than some. For them, madness was the only outlet they had left. While some of your fellows cried out for God, for Lucifer, for deliverance or oblivion, you waited, certain in the belief that if you were only steadfast, he would return to lead you forth. The battle had been lost, but the war was far from over. Or so you thought. As time lost it's meaning, you began to question. Why hadn't he returned? Where was he? What power could hold him, for all this time? You were one of those who flocked to the "borders" of your prison on each of the five occasions that a 'storm' rocked your prison, reinvigorated by the certainty that finally, the Champion of Humanity had returned, finally, to lead his horde forth to continue their good works. And each time, you were disappointed.
Which is why this time, when the very darkness around you vibrated, you barely reacted. Your mind had shut down all but it's most primitive processes, keeping only the barest sense of the dim knowledge of Humanity, and it's myriad failures and shortcomings. What you were enduring, it could hardly be called 'existence'. But this.. this was different. You specifically recall a wet, ripping noise, and pressure, immense pressure that threatened to crush you. What followed was the sensation of great speed and turbulence, as you passed through a tear in the membrane of your prison, and were sent hurtling.. somewhere. You could feel, rather than see the clawing appendages of an immense number of souls that tried to grasp you, prevent you from moving on, but you slipped helplessly through their grasp, being dragged onward by a force that you could neither perceive or deny. Your eyes, for so long clouded with grainy darkness, began to clear. Your surroundings resolved into an inferno. The humans, in their ignorance feared an existence just such as this, an eternity of agony in a raging maelstrom of fire and anguish. Yet, there was no pain. You had no physical form of your own, could not feel the sensations that you knew were natural and right. You were in a building, a large, wooden building, and it was completely engulfed in flames.
Your vision narrowed, your peripheral sight dimming until you could see only one thing. A flaming timber, nearly eight inches square, it's end securely on the chest of a human, male, you think, whose fingertips even now fall twitching away from where it had been attempting to free itself. You had seen death occur countless times during the War, had caused a large number of them yourself, but this, for some reason, felt more tragic, more "real". Perhaps it was because you had been denied stimulation or emotion for so terribly long. You felt yourself drawing closer and closer to the charring corpse, and then your perspective changed. You were not above the corpse looking down. You were opening eyes whose lids had partially melted away, an immense pressure on your chest preventing the drawing of breath. The logical portion of your mind explained that this was for the best, as a single breath drawn in this environment would scorch your lungs, and.. Your lungs? Your eyes? Your chest? Channeling the power you had not had cause or ability to summon in thousands of years, you reached up and threw the timber away from yourself. Willing yourself to move, you felt bones knitting and skin reforming as you rolled to your feet. Most of your clothing had burned away, and, while uncomfortable, you knew that you were going to survive. Not twenty feet away, a boat pulled away from a tiny dock set into the building, several huge pairs of eyes watching the building beginning to collapse. Gathering yourself, you put one foot in front of the other, gaining momentum until you had achieved a lolloping run. One of the bones in your leg was still broken, but mending rapidly now. You tensed your uninjured leg, and leapt toward the boat, landing with a crash against it's side with your chest, which forced the air out of your lungs. Strong hands reached into the water and dragged you into the boat. You had just flipped over onto your back, and looked where you had just been. The entire warehouse collapsed with a roar and a strong wave of heat reached out and touched your brow.
You opened your mouth to speak, and a thousand memories exploded inside your mind, like fiery needles piercing your brain. Only, the memories were not your own. You felt your sense of self begin to diminish, your recollection of tens of thousands of years fading under the avalanche of emotions, dreams, fears.. This person, this "Tony", was no more, and you resided in the shell that he had inhabited. But where were you? What in the name of Gods Grace were you doing here, and by what means had you arrived. And WHY?
Two weeks later, much remains unanswered. You have slowly become accustomed to "Tony". His thoughts, his preferences, his instincts still affected almost every move you made, but your mind was your own. Your memory of your past, from the unbounded days of endless beauty and creation, to the interminable incarceration after the Fall, these things are still cloudy. You could access any aspect of Tony's life, know what he knew, but you recall almost nothing of yourself. One question still truly remains.. Where is your master? Where.. is Lucifer?
Tonight, though, was for vengeance. Your Italian friends had discovered who had set fire to your warehouse. The fire which had claimed the lives of two night watchmen who had been working for your.. his.. father for twenty years. It is still difficult to separate you from him. You aren't sure if you are now one and the same, or if you are some form of composite or.. You're just not sure. What you are sure of is the homely woman in front of you with sallow skin, a nose that had been broken more than once, and stringy, lackluster hair was sitting in the back of your car with you. You held an envelope in your hand, an envelope with three-hundred dollars in it (a fortune, more than most laborers would make in half a year). This woman, this Rowena, claimed to have a name for you. The name of the person who had ordered your warehouse set ablaze. Her fingernails are dirty, you notice as she reaches toward the envelope, her eyes never leaving yours. That's what I said, Mr. Giovanni. His name, his address, and even the names of a couple of his boys. That kind of information is worth a lot, eh?
Truthfully, many of your memories had already faded. How many glories can one recall, after eons, millennia, of virtual non-being and torment? You had long since given up the real and true hope that you would ever be released from your tomb, this oubliette of anguish and suffering. Never again to stand proudly before your general, Lucifer, and perform deeds the likes of which would never be seen again. You withstood it better than some. For them, madness was the only outlet they had left. While some of your fellows cried out for God, for Lucifer, for deliverance or oblivion, you waited, certain in the belief that if you were only steadfast, he would return to lead you forth. The battle had been lost, but the war was far from over. Or so you thought. As time lost it's meaning, you began to question. Why hadn't he returned? Where was he? What power could hold him, for all this time? You were one of those who flocked to the "borders" of your prison on each of the five occasions that a 'storm' rocked your prison, reinvigorated by the certainty that finally, the Champion of Humanity had returned, finally, to lead his horde forth to continue their good works. And each time, you were disappointed.
Which is why this time, when the very darkness around you vibrated, you barely reacted. Your mind had shut down all but it's most primitive processes, keeping only the barest sense of the dim knowledge of Humanity, and it's myriad failures and shortcomings. What you were enduring, it could hardly be called 'existence'. But this.. this was different. You specifically recall a wet, ripping noise, and pressure, immense pressure that threatened to crush you. What followed was the sensation of great speed and turbulence, as you passed through a tear in the membrane of your prison, and were sent hurtling.. somewhere. You could feel, rather than see the clawing appendages of an immense number of souls that tried to grasp you, prevent you from moving on, but you slipped helplessly through their grasp, being dragged onward by a force that you could neither perceive or deny. Your eyes, for so long clouded with grainy darkness, began to clear. Your surroundings resolved into an inferno. The humans, in their ignorance feared an existence just such as this, an eternity of agony in a raging maelstrom of fire and anguish. Yet, there was no pain. You had no physical form of your own, could not feel the sensations that you knew were natural and right. You were in a building, a large, wooden building, and it was completely engulfed in flames.
Your vision narrowed, your peripheral sight dimming until you could see only one thing. A flaming timber, nearly eight inches square, it's end securely on the chest of a human, male, you think, whose fingertips even now fall twitching away from where it had been attempting to free itself. You had seen death occur countless times during the War, had caused a large number of them yourself, but this, for some reason, felt more tragic, more "real". Perhaps it was because you had been denied stimulation or emotion for so terribly long. You felt yourself drawing closer and closer to the charring corpse, and then your perspective changed. You were not above the corpse looking down. You were opening eyes whose lids had partially melted away, an immense pressure on your chest preventing the drawing of breath. The logical portion of your mind explained that this was for the best, as a single breath drawn in this environment would scorch your lungs, and.. Your lungs? Your eyes? Your chest? Channeling the power you had not had cause or ability to summon in thousands of years, you reached up and threw the timber away from yourself. Willing yourself to move, you felt bones knitting and skin reforming as you rolled to your feet. Most of your clothing had burned away, and, while uncomfortable, you knew that you were going to survive. Not twenty feet away, a boat pulled away from a tiny dock set into the building, several huge pairs of eyes watching the building beginning to collapse. Gathering yourself, you put one foot in front of the other, gaining momentum until you had achieved a lolloping run. One of the bones in your leg was still broken, but mending rapidly now. You tensed your uninjured leg, and leapt toward the boat, landing with a crash against it's side with your chest, which forced the air out of your lungs. Strong hands reached into the water and dragged you into the boat. You had just flipped over onto your back, and looked where you had just been. The entire warehouse collapsed with a roar and a strong wave of heat reached out and touched your brow.
You opened your mouth to speak, and a thousand memories exploded inside your mind, like fiery needles piercing your brain. Only, the memories were not your own. You felt your sense of self begin to diminish, your recollection of tens of thousands of years fading under the avalanche of emotions, dreams, fears.. This person, this "Tony", was no more, and you resided in the shell that he had inhabited. But where were you? What in the name of Gods Grace were you doing here, and by what means had you arrived. And WHY?
Two weeks later, much remains unanswered. You have slowly become accustomed to "Tony". His thoughts, his preferences, his instincts still affected almost every move you made, but your mind was your own. Your memory of your past, from the unbounded days of endless beauty and creation, to the interminable incarceration after the Fall, these things are still cloudy. You could access any aspect of Tony's life, know what he knew, but you recall almost nothing of yourself. One question still truly remains.. Where is your master? Where.. is Lucifer?
Tonight, though, was for vengeance. Your Italian friends had discovered who had set fire to your warehouse. The fire which had claimed the lives of two night watchmen who had been working for your.. his.. father for twenty years. It is still difficult to separate you from him. You aren't sure if you are now one and the same, or if you are some form of composite or.. You're just not sure. What you are sure of is the homely woman in front of you with sallow skin, a nose that had been broken more than once, and stringy, lackluster hair was sitting in the back of your car with you. You held an envelope in your hand, an envelope with three-hundred dollars in it (a fortune, more than most laborers would make in half a year). This woman, this Rowena, claimed to have a name for you. The name of the person who had ordered your warehouse set ablaze. Her fingernails are dirty, you notice as she reaches toward the envelope, her eyes never leaving yours. That's what I said, Mr. Giovanni. His name, his address, and even the names of a couple of his boys. That kind of information is worth a lot, eh?