07-22-2018, 11:58 PM
(This post was last modified: 07-23-2018, 02:26 AM by Dissonance Valerius.)
Home.
He had never walked these grounds, but they, too, were home. The spiritual home of the elitists, their true home. The one that would always be, although it remained abandoned now by all but spirits, their singular residence. Whoever it might have been, wherever you might have been, the mansion was your home. He'd sought it for so long, assembling bits and pieces of memories from poor souls by tongue, by word, by written instruction, whatever he could do, and finally he'd found it. He stood on the precipice, on a hill overlooking the mansion, peering down at it with intense blue eyes. Gone was the disheveled, unkempt tom of the past few years, the broken, empty shell - returned was the sleek, dark fur of an ambitious ex-snake with a god complex whose loyalty to the elite had been born, ironically, of treacherous intent and betrayal. He had restored himself fully, had been moving the pieces into place one by one, working to restore the foundations for their return, and the time was so deliciously near, so close he could almost taste it.
But first, he had personal matters to attend to. A pilgrimage, of sorts. How could he ever even dream of leading them without having come here? Their name would not remain, but its truth was emblazoned into the very fires of everyone's being. The elite was not a group anymore, but an ideal, revived in spirit whatever name they were soon to operate under.
He strode forth, towards the crumbled structure of the mansion, drinking in the stagnant smell of year's-old death, a reminder of a time when they had been truly fearsome. How unfortunate he'd been to have come as late as he did. Still, he'd seen through survival in the following two territories after the mansion. He had been late, but not too late. There was a presence here, almost palpable, the crushing weight of countless souls and then some, lost or reunited in the form of daemons. Here was a place where the barrier was thinnest, where the spiritually attuned, like himself, could feel the sheer weight of it all. It was oppressive, heavy...intoxicating. He saw them flickering by, those poor souls of former foes and allies alike, wandering without aim, unable to escape, just desperately trying to avoid becoming food for Those Up High. But he wasn't here for them; it'd be pathetic if he stooped to consuming lost souls for himself. He had no need.
The closer he got, though, the more that oppressive feeling of so many souls became palpable, heavier and heavier. He was guided inexorably towards it. There was something - someone - here for him to find.
He had never walked these grounds, but they, too, were home. The spiritual home of the elitists, their true home. The one that would always be, although it remained abandoned now by all but spirits, their singular residence. Whoever it might have been, wherever you might have been, the mansion was your home. He'd sought it for so long, assembling bits and pieces of memories from poor souls by tongue, by word, by written instruction, whatever he could do, and finally he'd found it. He stood on the precipice, on a hill overlooking the mansion, peering down at it with intense blue eyes. Gone was the disheveled, unkempt tom of the past few years, the broken, empty shell - returned was the sleek, dark fur of an ambitious ex-snake with a god complex whose loyalty to the elite had been born, ironically, of treacherous intent and betrayal. He had restored himself fully, had been moving the pieces into place one by one, working to restore the foundations for their return, and the time was so deliciously near, so close he could almost taste it.
But first, he had personal matters to attend to. A pilgrimage, of sorts. How could he ever even dream of leading them without having come here? Their name would not remain, but its truth was emblazoned into the very fires of everyone's being. The elite was not a group anymore, but an ideal, revived in spirit whatever name they were soon to operate under.
He strode forth, towards the crumbled structure of the mansion, drinking in the stagnant smell of year's-old death, a reminder of a time when they had been truly fearsome. How unfortunate he'd been to have come as late as he did. Still, he'd seen through survival in the following two territories after the mansion. He had been late, but not too late. There was a presence here, almost palpable, the crushing weight of countless souls and then some, lost or reunited in the form of daemons. Here was a place where the barrier was thinnest, where the spiritually attuned, like himself, could feel the sheer weight of it all. It was oppressive, heavy...intoxicating. He saw them flickering by, those poor souls of former foes and allies alike, wandering without aim, unable to escape, just desperately trying to avoid becoming food for Those Up High. But he wasn't here for them; it'd be pathetic if he stooped to consuming lost souls for himself. He had no need.
The closer he got, though, the more that oppressive feeling of so many souls became palpable, heavier and heavier. He was guided inexorably towards it. There was something - someone - here for him to find.
WIP tags
"We value tradition and intelligence more than them, and understand more about the Daemons, but we're still a tribe, a linked family of families."
"...and when the walls come tumbling down, when you lose everything you have, you always have family. And your family always has tribe."
"We value tradition and intelligence more than them, and understand more about the Daemons, but we're still a tribe, a linked family of families."
"...and when the walls come tumbling down, when you lose everything you have, you always have family. And your family always has tribe."