The Gathering Of Sacred Lands
It had been many long years since I stepped within the Shadow World to combat my invisible, false enemies. The world around me had already succumbed to it's anti-godness and heinous perversion. So it seemed, yet I was learning more about the life every day. Faint hearted euphisms give no indication of a weariness to the fates of bones, yet in that, I was alone in my struggle, save for the girl that walked within the folds of phantasmic light.
Those phantasms were friends of mine, years ago. I still hear her, out there in the cold where winter's snow blows softly with the hiss of it's bite upon the lip. A dread for my sorrow, pain within pain's blight, force of shadows gone away... She is Saria, and in her world, she has died so many times! Why do I even allow it. Why do I keep bringing her back only to die the same death and end up in the same... Shattered Shadow.
The Force. Some herald it from Star Wars, others from Crowley, others know it as their own will magnified by the motivation of superior speed and accuracy. Yet what a dark and horrible force it is when we wield it for a thing less than justice. Hope itself would come up against us, looking into our eyes with it's Hope, and it would slay the darkest of intentions with a simple glance beyond that wielder's black. Such forces I have wielded, thereby, I know that we must believe in Love, to trust in Peace and Justice. These are things, passive by nature, yet omnipotent when developed to the point of their own limit unto our limitations.
So Saria walks within the shadow true. A shadow blood, a shadow borne up and brighted by the fates of spirit sword. A given, the creedence of her quest for vengeance, mercy in her name, the shadows borne up for her sake, a mercy unto her I pray. Dear Saria, I have been cruel to you. It was not with fate that I brought you forward, nor with love that I cast your emblem. And to think! I declared you my heart's fondest, yet the other girl, the Pure Formed and how many beyond her have I loved in obscurity of heart's one yielding unto the wielding of the arcane Love Divine.
So now, with the knowledge and ability of meditation more fully affixed, my attention turns to that Shattered Shadow and it's prophecies of my own future, now the present, dust in hand I calm the flames of my mouth, and enter in to the Astral within that phantasy of olden questing myriad of desires. A fortune quick, a death foretold? Perhaps, yet not indeed. For have I suffered life as a satyr, as a man, as a prince, as a worthless vulgar, as a god, all in vain? Jehovah will judge it. In this, we place our greatest trust. For without a god, True, Holy, Manifestor and Divine Guidance, how can we even lift our life to offer our wisdom, for men would be mere grass boiling in the wake of Holy Fire. Such a waste, disgust upon my lashes, feeble and betrayer of a saintly gist. Prayer not by words of men, nor by heart of empty love, but unto into therefore the Lumina Star. Yet there is division there, for who comes upon the Core, to know Omega, and who daunts a daring blade within the heart of Phaentia, to know their mind in omnipotence of forces hence, and who, by their virtue, their own, who can manifest a thing within the Lumina Star, when they have not given it respect!
Go dig in the basement. Go talk to your cats. Leave my heart alone, stop trying to control me. Leave it be, do not dare to say a word to my ear. Be gone from me, you are not my god. Will you listen? How much of a parasite must you prove yourself to be, o great omnipotence of god? You are not a god, you are an enemy of freedom, your hypnosis is a keen defeat, you waste yourself, you waste of time. Such things as these have been produced, all of them a warning to the enemy who dare step within the shadow world without first guarding the gate of his spirit. A demon with the voice of an angel, the face of a woman, and the body of a demi-god. Yet who will harken unto him in due time approportioned, for a saint would keep his peace, he would love himself though only the world hates him so that he ought die.
And Saria? She hastens to my bedside, waiting for my soul to open to that light, Phaentia, the Phantasy Star Trifold by Force Of Creation's Flame. A normal man would not even notice, yet in desperation in the day of the raped girl gone, I see her walking away, hiding, keeping safe, though cold and alone she knows that I put my hand out as if to sacrifice to her name... and I take it back, for it was as useless as the wind blowing between the legs. A daring gesture of appreciation, though I would control her as 'he' would control me. A puppet master who himself has a string, tangling the wires of his destined doom, rapture of the creed best fit for ugliness and wrath upon his name.
It was in the Sacred Lands at this wintery particular season that Lejia had arrived by the Airship "Vega2". Lejia, of course, is the partly parted being, both male and female, yet also satyr and xenomorph, a living "Witchblade" and "Hellspawn" fashioned according to my personal desire and tastes for an archetype alien of profound portent for future's self... of course. She steps off of the ship, and walks down in among the people. She has her garb acquired and equipped, a lovely mix of foxen furs and reptilian hide. Her prescence is one of agitation and worry, for she senses the devil has come.
It would be another day, and the worlds of which we are partakers and inhabitants would certainly have their voices given to the praise of which there was their idol, their devil, their saint, their Christ, and finally, who would cherish the voice of Jehovah, who would deny the ugly one, though the most beautiful, that ancient slayer of hope's revolved of the worldly plot. And so, Lejia took her station, having been given by the people of the Sacred Lands her own dwelling quarters, a small shack that was furnished with electrical heaters and a way to cook her spiced drinks.
So those of whom are the wonderful wielders of the planeswalker and runewalker, soul seer, visionary and phaentian, come, for it shall be unto the New Year, and then? We shall see.
Lejia. Her long reddish brown hair done in curls to her mid back, a back of racked muscle like knobs of synergetic force-wielded amplification of morosely good and fit form. Her large bosom is exposed to the cold air, once charred unto the death of Sanctity, then brisk and ripened unto that timeless moment where Sacred Lands doth exist in quenching of tekka metal and psycho-flare. Now, her flesh does shine, the Celestial Star-Knight Blade as part of her greater aura does quiver around her, nourishing her sense, her sensibility, and all that she ought be within her love of self, she utters, "Come... unto me. My lover true, my form of you, I am the form of you. Come... lover, Creator waits, he sees us, pray not in devil, but in me."
The crescent moon now upon it's final wane does glow with surrounding lights of spearing stars so tender in their gentle shine. A night in which, the droids have none to come forth, and those diabolic Dark Dominion gates can not open themselves, not again, for a time...
It had been a little over a week, and already the Sacred Lands were showing signs of improvement. With the special child, "Lejia" in place, her prayers and unfolding of the blessings immaculate and provisionary was helping to calm and soothe the years of ruthless combat. I watched her in momentary power, when that moment came upon me I dared to scribe the words with haste, a feverish pace to the scrawling of that Shadow World.
The Snow Forest.
It was there that the young girl Rebecca came to find her most special treasure yet! A flower that had been completely frozen, yet it was not frozen with ice or cold, it was frozen in a stasis of a temporal disruption. She digs it out, and ensures that no part of it was broken. That lone 'Ice Rose' would be invaluable at a later portion of the quest, for now, it was merely the undoing of a madness to the state of this isolated, desperate shadow of reality.
Rebecca takes it to the young "Treasure Hunters X" gang at the tower, and they begin to admire the treasure... soon, it seemed that more was going to happen to their little world than they had previously thought to be required for a 'normal' life.
Lejia kneels on the patch of grass. A storm cloud was moving in from the north, it bubbled with the weight of it's load, and the snowflakes began to fall. She was clad in her leather loinclothe, made of the hide of a reptillian beast slain by her mother on Vezora Mainland. Other than that, her large bosom was exposed to the falling snow, and it began to gleam with the moisture and the star light.
A prayer she gave, for all those little ones,
Her voice a whisper and a vibrance...
"Great Source... Father Of All, you have created moments such as these that I might refine myself in the spirit of giving blessings, yet what power do I have of my own accord? For the weariness and the draught upon the land has become too great, my people suffer, is this the justice that you have promised to my people? I know, your rage is great, and the mistakes of the past are yet clinging to our eyes, they drip from our faces, they hang from our mouths. It was in the spirit of prayer unto You that I knelt down, and to think, in Davoren, and those following after Tyrant Malice, these have perverted the meaning of all words, and given a challenge to those in the way of faithfulness."
She opens her eyes, and her palms are spread to the heavens. The wind blows, yet here in the Sacred Lands it was without any vital temperature, a nullified state, a thing of vergance on the 'non existence' which Lejia feared the most. The snow whirls across the ground, pattering to it's places, melting away into that dreaded non existence nowhere else more prominent than here in the Sacred Lands. Only those living had the powers of Fire and Ice in this land, and the snow fallen upon Lejia's hair itself shimmered with a song of praise, for it felt that there had been an utmost, personal salvation.
"Now I pray for those young ones who are daunting on the way of the gun, rat a tat tat and your word progresses no farther than the tongue to mock it's destined power. The young have been decieved, Father, they have been taught of a false god, they do not seek you. I ask, by your omnipotence in spirit, turn back the hearts of sons towards fathers, and daughters to their mothers. For the way that these people gaze upon each other is as something that wants to eat and savor the taste, yet to gorge itself all the more fully with every glance upon the way of the flesh. Here, we are not given unto fleshly desires, yet those little ones, are they? Are they anymore your children, or have you forsaken them, have you forsaken us?"
And as the storm began to settle in more fully, for a single moment of passing time, the clock made a noise as if to tick, and Simon watched it, his eye was there upon the chronometer, and he knew, there would be rebirth, there would yet be a New Spring within this ancient, timeless dead zone of ultimate magick's ruining explosion.