Active Reflections | The Incarnadiness

[LuxTop]

Somber attic was lifeless - specs of dust didn't waltz in the stale air, any insects or mammals, or any creature whatsoever, were long gone from the space. Absolute stillness was in the room. All remained the same for what felt like eternity if there was an observer, all until the metal screeched from the doorway - the dormant air was rekindled by a light draft from it, the changes started. One by one, the flecks were carried away by it. Few forceful thuds, and the door gave in, parting with the doorframe with a loud snap that filled the room. Quietness retreated. Swirls of air carried up more dust, clearing the path in the sea of specks that painted the floor grey. The saturated chestnut was stripped of layers of dust that hid away its beauty, the path became more and more apparent as the drafts of air passed from the opened entrance. Light was still avoidant of entering the attic - it kept itself shyly by the doorway, only daring to gloss over the old, but magnificent in its ancient beauty flooring with the sanded scratch marks left from the faulty door. Specks of dust finally found their companion - they played with the light, waltzing in it one by one, they all wished to play with it. They swirled in and out of it, trying to stay in its blissful warmth for one more time, sparkle brightly like it was their last and only chance to be alive, to be in spotlight. Sounds slowly dissipated, the echo almost died out and quietness perhaps would had taken hold of attic once again, if not the creaking of the planks. Metal thudded against the wood, boots were click-clacking. Cashmere cape subtly billowed behind, further raising dust in the air. The ambling on the surface was assertive - but the prolonged stops at the corners indicated creeping hesitancy, a restless caution. At one of the stops of scouting the attic a bang resounded from the entrance. Something claw like stomped the surface - blasting dust across the impact. The noise was loud, it disturbed the pace at which life was filling in the room - now it was a hurried one, rapidly changing the attic. Deep inside the attic, to where life had reached, leather squeaked - the right glove turned into a fist, but its sound was canceled out by the successive and erratic clomping in direction of it. Clumsily the noise maker made its way to the disturbingly still figure, that remained pinned to the ground - awaiting for the contact. The loud hopping abruptly ended once the target reached the awaiting one. Steps ceased - their place was taken by the previously silenced squeaking of leather. A sudden seize around the neck and a lift to above the ground was all that it took to bring a fleeing moment the silence. Temptation to end the annoying noises - the gasps for air - entered the troubled mind. The impling was spared - thrown aside into a darkness. Its master shook off from attire the dust brought by the minion, catching his breath out of frustration. Silence peeked in, but it was prevented from reigning by the continued gasping of air by the imp and master's voice.

"Stay out of my sight!" - scoffed the man, he stared at his gloved hand that twitched from anger before taking hold of it with his other around the wrist to halt it. Eyes lifted up and stared at the veiled object in the distance - his muffled steps to it continued in muteness. Once it was reached, he pulled down the curtain that hid behind it a wide mirror mounted on a wall. It was perfect. He admired it, it thrilled him, it banished the annoyances he was poisoned with into the forgotten crypts of the mind. Gaze trailed the surface of the mirror, trying to notice any imperfections on it - scratches, chipped surfaces, opaqueness. Imp recovered from a toss, fleeing, rapidly scratching away polish on the floor while its master obsessively examined the mirror. The golds glinted in the mirror, the reflection was immaculate, it had drawn him into the reflections, the depths of his mind that were awakened from slumber.
His reflection spread out hands, the arms were flexed with no visible pain in facial expression. It irritated him - for he was recovering from broken arms.
"Power, it is all about power, isn't it?"

"Always was, always will be - he was right." hand hardened once again, wrinkling the gloves.​

"Why do you say he? It was an eternal truth and you do not need to fucking attribute it to a piece of shit like him. He missed on attaining power with you, you heard him confess it long time ago - he envies you. You have the flame, he doesn't. He is a miserable, pathetic, unhappy man, always was and always will be." reflection was grinding teeth, exposing them stuck together every now and then - it was aflame with anger.

"I..." he was startled - how could one show all these emotions, how could one not hide them?​

He chuckled. "As simply as that, staying truthful to oneself, not fearing one's own emotions. You and I, we both know the suffering of putting on smile, pretending. At least I can give it to him - he didn't hide emotions since the sparking. But you... You had been."

It felt reflection read his mind. It understood him. Like no other.
​

"But I was myself, I meant it, every single word I spoke."
​

"And where did it get you? They neglect you, they turned their backs to you. They do not care about you. They do not try to understand you."

"But they do, not all of them... Some do - Nilsa, Matt, Erwin, Vowrawn, Fjord. They had been fine with my state - they didn't..."
​

"Do not be naïve. They didn't give you away yet. And you heard them - they won't listen to you when you try to speak to them. They will attribute your imperfections, and the situations you are forced in, to your horns. --..."

"They supported me one way or another unlike the rest, it is something." the reply was haste and desperate, . . .
​

. . . but he continued "They are as busy or lazy, or uncaring, or selfish, as all the others to try and understand problematic you. They have predisposed opinions about you just like the rest - it's only the matter of time before they join the cold to you strangers, or it dawns your naïve, too good, mind, that they already are among them. They won't care about you. Your horns, don't you see how they hate with all their guts you for having them? How they fear repercussions for being associated with you? Nilsa was spot on - it costs too much being around you. It is not worthwhile. As for the rest... They got gods, not you, not an imitation of one that could lead them, or provide power every being hungers for. You have none of it to keep them, neither as friends nor as subordinates."

"But they found in me something, didn't they? They stuck around, I had been..." he got talked over by reflection​

"A dirty, shriveled, anemic lad that mewls for approval and recognition, and love, by running head first into the same brick wall. How could they recognize your qualities when they see a monster in you, when you spread thin, when you are stressed out, paranoid, exhausted, hurt, fearing to show your emotions as they will get you in trouble, muzzle you, or they will find them ingenuine, and put words in your mouth? Like the rest do. Only difference between them and the strangers - is the matter of time of when they recognize the cost of being with you."

"True bonds aren't built in a day."
​

"Listen to yourself, excuses after excuses, after excuses... You know when you and Ice man lost the bond? It wasn't when you locked him up in jail, it was when you were on your knees at the hospital, when he saw what a weakling you are. You gave away the secret desire of yours, the one you had ever since you lost him... Say .. it .. now."

"I wanted him to sacrifice himself for my life, be just like him - ready to die for me."
​

"You had been chasing people, trying to please them, listening to their sorrows when they were broken, drowning in despair, showering them with gifts, guiding them when they were rookies, fighting for them, taking tasks like a squire at stables ready to filth himself deep in horseshit for a thumbs up. Look where it got you - nowhere. You won't find selfless friend who will sacrifice themselves to satisfy your ego - that idiot of course wanted to die. Not for you - for himself. What did he have left? No relatives, tarnished reputation, collapsing estate, a mob of angry peasants, a broken heart and mind, and you, who should had died. Even the concept of justice, you think he had pity for tormented you? He died for the concept - not for you."

"He was my friend!" meekly voice squeaked, faltering from built up emotions.

​

"Was. Not anymore. He is dead! No one to replace him. And think about it - what did you do for him to earn the sacrifice? It is mindboggling how you managed to bond with him after all the shit you had been through, and you are driven mad not knowing how you did it. You can't replicate it despite you running around like a dog with rabies, doing anything possible to make a friend just like him. Luck isn't on your side."

"I do not want to lose hope. "

​

"You already lost it. By hiding from the most tolerant people towards horned, poor, estranged you. You do not fear just the masses of strangers with forks and torches- you fear them too. Just admit it, the truth. Everyone is selfish, and you should stop pretending you are not. Carla and Iris, you eloped with one or the other just because you want to be happy and saved from the burden of uncertainty, desperate to have a breath of happiness you long for. If you came to conclusion - cured yourself of doubt of who is the One, which is unlikely, but still, - will you turn the other one into a friend you long for? Let them die for you and your wife, to ensure yourself a happy ending at a cost of another's fate?"

"I would never..." the voice was interrupted once again, the reflection was inflicting excruciating hurt​

"You know it - you can't equally love all of them. --- ... -.. Tell me, why did you act as a bravado when you were a guard? Rushing in to fight the crime, risking your well being, your dreams." he furrowed, demanding the answer, but only silence followed

" Why you buzzed around like a little fly, galloped like a horse from one place to the other, caring for whoever the hell there was. Wanted to be loved by the public? Wanted to uphold justice, in this selfish, growling in hunger for power, drenched in blood world? Unrequited servitude, what a fucking joke! You can't be the Conqueror of Hearts and Minds while admitting you are selfish to the others, while you lack power. The first rule of this world is to never let others know you are selfish, pretend to be selfless. Look at the Illustrious Rangers, who fucking threatened you over the Cloak, over the power, promised to inflict unprecedented fucking pain if you didn't accept the offer, in front of the Guardhouse, in front of the Cathedral, threaten you, a fucking hero that didn't slack it off like them. Remember Laicelem, this revolting self-contradictory buffoon, the turncoat? He wanted to take it to them the moment it was brought into your sight, you think why he stuck around for so long? Raelur, who started to take action against Branko after only you made him imagine his painful fall from the pedestal of fame and wealth, all the scandals of a lazy, fake, not upholding his oaths councilors. Aleksei, who took all the junk for himself of a demon you had sweated and risked your life for, and as thanks for Lodestar's defense or the siege didn't turn you in to the ferocious blessed. Athryl, who didn't care about truth and justice, dismissing your confessions to Ignis or whoever the hell there is to determine your innocence, and contradicting himself by kicking you out based on a letter, rumors, that accused not just you but his own circle of a crime. You think any of them cared about justice, about doing the right thing, about anything other than their own position, power, and reputation?"

"That's... Right."​

"Yattzy! Finally! Now, the second rule - is that you can be openly selfish, so long as you got power. You think why they had done just fine, despite being true to themselves? It was power. And you lack it. Your efforts are not enough, you need more of it."

"Power may protect me from injustices, but I still will be lonely. Look at Branko, the public hates him."​

"He isn't lonely, neither are you. The fact public alienates you for your horns as equally as him for fucked up shit he did - mutilating people, stealing from them, forcing people in faith conversion or mutations - is a fucking joke."

"But they are scared, demons had destroyed Altera before."
​

"They are shills, self-contradictory reactionaries. Altera is always in threat. Spiritlbessed, Vyres, Skraagites, Jishrimites, Visagites, Know's lunatics, inquisitors, archaeologists poking around for another trophy for a shelf with risk of awakening a titan from slumber. You think how they survived? They banded up. They have strength to keep them alive, shielded from prosecution and injustices, they silence annoying voices by shear volume of their cries. And scared? Fucking scared? They are armed to the teeth, they control everything. They control you. Because you enable them. You did work for them, you allowed yourself to be treated like a toy that they can toss around and neglect. So, why do you care what a bunch of mud people think? Come on, you won't be lonely without them, lad. Man up. Look at yourself, you do just fine, all you need is to take hold of yourself. Who needs them? It doesn't depend on you, you had given your best, and you know it. Be vulnerable, be truthful with them? No, they won't understand that language - we had been told nothing but lies, inconsistencies, hypocrisies. I had been caring, I felt remorse over mistakes, I was not callous to them - they isolate, they prosecute me, they deprive me of the support that we need. Instead, they push us over the edge. All because of horns, all because of power, the potential we hold."

he sniffled, shutting eyes.​

"Say it, who do you want to be?

"I want to be the Conqueror of Hearts of Minds, I want to be loved."
​

"Not all will love you, but you do not need these bugs. Be selective of who matter to you, and bring to smithereens the rest. And then, well, then my boy you can finally be who you always were meant to be. Authentic. Happy. Why paint yourself in your own blood, when you can paint it in blood of unjust ones, of the self-righteous pricks that turn everything upside down? Wear Incarnadine armor proudly." reflection had a cocky, obsessed smirk that slowly was lost in bitterness.
"Fuck Bennett for mocking it - fucking goofy looking - watch your tongue stutterer, - and lying about appreciating your service as a dumb selfless guard, fuck all who look down at you, who lie, pretend they are the righteous ones." hand slid along the pitch dark horns, an unmasked grin appeared

"I am done. I am done apologizing. I am done being prosecuted for my strength, for my possession. You zealots, you should be thanking gods that I am who and what I am because you need me! You need me to live in delusion that you are not selfish, unjust, power hungry. I am better then you think. I am better! I am not some weak-kneed crybaby that can be fucking bullied around to make you feel better. Doing the right thing - eradicating corruption, fucking caring about me? I hadn't done a single thing, hadn't asked for your shallow, fake aid, and you fear me already so much, that you treat me inhumanely?"

"You are not the real heroes. I am the real hero.
I am the real hero."
he stared into the darkness of the mirror until he was interrupted by a scratching sound against the glass. His infuriated eyes stared down at the impling, shivering in fear. It looked anxious.
​

"I fucking told you!" teeth grinded against one another, blackened smoke was left out of the mouth - it clouded his face, but the eyes shined through it right into the startled being. It was climbing, crawling, jumping, hanging - doing all possible tricks to avoid master's eyesight, and when it was ready to hurry away - trying to shrink its hideously inflated body into a speck of dust - it got snatched by neck and uplifted. Gloves squeezed the neck, pressing into leathery skin the fingertips "Say it, Your Incarnadiness, Conqueror of Hearts and Minds, say it!" but the imp was mute. At points of contact flesh hissed, releasing smoke that was joining the dark breath of the man. Throttling was unrestrained, sadistic. The frozen hesitancy was long gone. Life fizzled out of imp's eyes, but glow of master's animalistic, ticked off eyes, and the glinting of metal on gloves, remained, driving attention away from the lifeless husk that fell to the floor after it was released.

A huff followed, as the man slid cautiously hand along the mirror, sensing the scratch left by the minion. Gloves produced squeaking sound again. They found themselves drifting away from the mirror, shaking in fury, to the manuscripts laying on floor. He obsessively combed manuscripts, craving for an answer within them, finally founding it, and relaxing his hands. They were painted blood, from fingers pressing in too hard and for too long into palms.

"It's all about power, always was and always will be." he repeated to himself, before enacting the ritual.


Inspired by Homelander scenes from the Boys.
​

 

[Kostadim]

 

[LuxTop]

Sometime before the battle of the Cerulean Expanse

A bundle of flowers was held tightly in his hand - the ghastly winds would otherwise had carried them away across the valleys, scatter them around the boundless horizon. All of them that he meticulously selected among the thousands of flower patches he came across - choosing the most beautiful ones he could find among them. He examined them one by one through a cashmere cloak, fearing to scorch them with his warm hands. A cylinder of water hovered next to him, in which the stems of flowers were left in for preservation - above it, less denser steam left sprinkles on the petals every now and then, to keep them fresh. Droplets beautifully reflected sunshine upon them, like a thousand of gems, glistening, shining, all bathing in the glory of the golden sun. Colorful petals reminded him of a rainbow, that he seemingly imagined vividly in the far distance.

"She would had loved these."

"She would. People like things that they find their own reflections in. And she... She always was the bright one, abound with cheerfulness and hope of the better future. "​

"Hyacinths, tulips, were her favourite. I wish I had gifted them to her more often, supplied them daily so she could have brightness at her dimly lit workshop. Let scent of freshly plucked flowers fill the room, replace still air with the breath of nature..."

"A hopeless romantic, lovestruck as always. She was perhaps your first true love, one that put you back from despair of the past. No wonder you admired her, you worshipper her. Carrying in her this soothing nature you seek to immerse yourself in, as in these fields, to forget your worries and sorrows. To surround yourself in, to be enveloped by the greatness, to lose and find yourself within it. Now, that she is gone, these fields are the only reminder of her. These fields, where no one but you can hear your cry."
​

"I wish she would emerge out of another hill I pass by to enchant me with her radiating smile, or that I would find her in a flowerbed, pretending that she was sleeping peacefully before chuckling uncontrollably at my cautious attempt to check upon her."

"I wish that too, she kept us whole."
​

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"These fields are enthralling, aren't they? You always know their response, you had studied them in awe - day and night, to see them in their beauty under sunlight or moonlight - at dawn or at sunrise, in rain or draught. They remind you of your dream, of this stunning, grandiose garden, to rival all in Altera, like no other. Why give up on it, on everything? Make it, for yourself, for her, and for the future. Who says, other than your confused, faulty senses, that she is gone forever? Or that you won't discover the same life-changing person in someone else, to make you whole? Rise up, and test yourself - do not lose willpower, direct it to better yourself, to vanquish those who threaten your dreams, like these mindless pawns of the Ivory King that ravage the fields? Why let them spread the sorrow, the despair? You must perfect yourself, for your dreams, for yourself, for her, for the future. You need the memorial for her, to lay these flowers at, you need a memorial, to elevate yourself, to live the life in utter comfort, the one you deserve. Thus, rise up and test yourself, for the glory is yours."

​

And so, filled with sorrow, hope, and pride, Reinhard had joined the battle for the portal of Ivory King, freezing his despise for the blessed and those he found unjust and selfish, joining them and hoping to test his strength against the forces depriving the fields of colorful life.

The battle was fierce, his despise for the blessed and anxiety fled - for he was not persecuted or mocked, and in fact - taken care of by a woman, who helped him to cauterize his wound from an arrow. This kindness had inspired him to fight with vigour, but it had also led him to make a grievous mistake, of following the woman's example and assisting knocked out Matt - by carrying him from the advancing fiends with his broken ribs.

At reaching the hospital, with blood being coughed out from the punctured lungs, he found himself alone. Unattended by no one out of the familiar voices resounding in the hall, no one but nurses, but to no avail, as pain endured, and blood, and warmth, was slowly leaving him. In the morning, when he was unconscious, hospital hall was filled with cheerful talks and laughter. Matt had been healthy, save, with his misaligned hand been taken care of, and a pup had been patted and talked about. As the man said - it was good there was someone to take care of the puppy. For Reinhard - alas, the care was too late due to severity of his wounds, and he was mercy killed by Lana with sweet words that she uttered to him. If he was conscious, if he had will, he would had smiled, for he was thirsting for kindness and justice, and care.​

 

[LuxTop]

Fireday, 24th of Fogwater, 2309, Storm's Landing, the Guardhouse, prison cell

Another bowl of prison food was mindlessly emptied by the yearning for food stomach, the growling did die out in magnitude, but it still persisted - filling in the tortuous silence. He wasn't craving just for nutrients, with which he was supplied just enough with to recover - but for the taste, for the due care put into food - the whole world seemed mechanical to him and cold - hollow. Reinhard gazed into the nearly cleansed of its contents surface of the dish, finding glimpses of reflections at the right angle. Obsessively, he started to scoop up more of the porridge, scratching the bottom, taking off layer by layer with a spoon, throwing out at one point instead of eating the contents as he lost the appetite, and was eager to see any face - especially his, even in distorted form, for so lonely he felt at the moment, and so immersed he was - in asking himself- why? His mind was troubled - this why was insurmountable to ignore - even while having answers to some aspects of the matter, he didn't understand why the things were the way they were. Upon catching another distorted glimpse of himself - he twisted in his hands the polished dish, rotating and flipping it over and over, next to the lit candle, - seeing the beams of ambient light jumping off the curves. There, the two golds he found - fixated at themselves, with black impurities in the middle of them - pupils.
" Am I corrupt?" - he asked himself aloud, thinking in terms occultists learnt to think - through images, through art. Symbolism played a crucial role in incantations, - in the whole worldview of the occultists, and he found himself shaped by it the more he practiced the arcane. It led him to be philosophical - finding profound meaning in imagery, attaining unique perspectives. Voices were incoherent - and all that he heard once focus was applied to them, - was silence, this unbearable, mind-torturing struggle he couldn't endure that day or night - he lost the track of time cycles.
"Shallow, hollow, empty, without substance - like dummies, talk to them - they always change, they do not understand me, - and those that do... They leave my life, one way or another - I couldn't even part with them the due way - maybe... - For the better... Or worse." he swallowed, looking aside from reflection, before hearing the voice in it, drawing his golds back at them. What he heard wasn't appealing to him, it scared him, the truth, but the uttered was the sole thing he truly hungered for - comprehension of his experiences. This analysis, this self-reflection, hit deep into his contracted soul. He approached it with reverence, the truth-fearing, truth-loving one.
"Lucian, Carla, Isolde, Carpenter, the Butcher - all gone, without the trace. Say thanks to... Heavens, hells, - whatever! Say thanks to whatever, at least, that they didn't end up like the rest. Maybe those lost, gone with no word left - are the sole reason of what keeps you alive, keeps you tolerating the twisted society - this hope of authenticity." this term was possessively branded in the depths of his mind - for he discovered another truth, it was a breakthrough for him.
"They are too judgmental, they are inconsiderate, they are uncaring, unwilling to change themselves when their reality, their core being - clashes with the revelations, they are weak - they are pathetic, one can't help but feel pity for them - for they are not even alive, their lives are more miserable than mine in this rotten prison. They are so weak, that they would be crushed, torn apart - should their views be challenged. They induce themselves in this illusion of this bland worldview, this perspective - if it can be called as such - it is unconceivable how ensnared they are by it." he took a long pause, awestruck, the reflection showed a widely opened mouth - bemused by the path of thought, of where it led.
"And it explains why they purport injustices, - they fear the change, they are so infirm, that they avoid like fire entertaining a single thought - for it may be the catalyst for their self-destruction. Their anxiety leads to irrational, desperate acts. Moreover, since their contingent existence, their state of being - can never be called a proper, healthy one - they are tainted, not you, no, no..."
"This leads to one logical conclusion..."
"An inevitable one. Who could have thought, that you one day would derive to the conclusion."
"But is it a conclusion? Should I... - -?" he stuttered, swallowing anxiously "Do it?" he uttered, taking another awkward pause, no more bothered by silence, for the thought carried him away into the abyss of morals. His expressionless, stoic eyes, stared down into the reflections, somewhere beyond his own image. The metal in his hands, clutching into the ridges of the bowl, didn't leave it glowing - but it was still warm. If he could, he would have let himself to touch the sun, to grasp the blaze of the depths of hells, but he couldn't.
"No. I am better. I am better! I am above them, and I have willpower, I have identity - they do not." he raised voice, getting out of breath for emotions flooded him, the golds had intensified in the glow.
"I am the effulgent one, and let their eyes burn from my light, for I will no more hide, I will be myself." Reinhard descended down to the ground, doing push-ups obsessively until he felt the burn across his limbs, with the bowl placed right beneath the eyes, he stared at it, grimacing, changing in expressions, overfilled with emotions. When he finished, the bowl was filled with tears of sorrow and joy, and with sweat of the hard work.
"I will be very excited for them to meet the real me. No more unfair world - no more weakness. Never again."

 

[LuxTop]

Blessday, 16th of Snowdown, 2310, a day after the Tragedy

For some mindboggling reason Reinhard had felt he had a solution to Ayda's death, even if she lacked the free will to return, which he doubted given her radiance, her happiness with him, given her love for the earthly pleasures, for the people of her Clan, for adventures, for the family, even if some of them had turned their back on her... He sensed, that she would return sooner or later, and if it took too long, no matter the cost, - to bring her back, he would do anything, empower any being to call her back, pay any price - to rejoin with her. He had beings to appeal to, he had mages to contact, he had Skraagites and Shallhreana worshippers to negotiate with. For this reason, he, contrary to primal instincts, to the raging storm of emotions spiraling in his core, focused on some other response within himself, a chilling one...

His mind was preoccupied that day obsessively, with something disturbing in the other capacity, something unexplored, something presence of which he hadn't sensed in what felt like decades. The arcane, the elusive, the unknown... He hadn't confronted it, it was sitting deep inside of him. Flashes of memories sparked - he fell to the grass by the window she was murdered by, forcing his nails into the palms of his hands till they bled, painting with crimson the grass blades. The crimson dew, elegantly sliding along the curves and hanging off the bent tips of the greens, left plant life satisfied - falsely taking it as the refreshing dew they had been awaiting for. This... Stinging pain, of grass leaving deeper cuts, the burning sensation soothed only by the breeze that squeezed itself in-between the fingers... Felt exactly like that day. On the slopes of the hill, overlooking the settlement he hoped to find his belonging in, in this overwhelmingly Big at the time World, in vain. Candlewood was not a place for him to call home, he was alienated ever since he showed his character, ever since he aspired to become something more than a flexible clay figure to be shaped by the powerful ones into what they liked. Reinhard wasn't like that. He wasn't mouldable, shapeable, he was never fitting into the frames, and neither did he like framing others, depriving them of their true self, no matter how much it had caused trouble. He wasn't a parent yet, to test this in practice, if he would be consistent enough to this principle, to not be a hypocrite. But it was true to him generally, he didn't find merit, from his own experience, to frame people. The pulse of their beating hearts, the vigorous soul and the relentless spirit, they at some point prevail, leaving cracks under built-up pressure in the frames, sapping, leaking out of the cavities, if not outright exploding them into shards. The life itself, within them, the frames, the moulds, becomes meaningless, as it is deprived to express itself, identify itself. He spoke, he saw, he heard, and he experienced it, himself. It was not the way. And perhaps it... Was the answer, in his long-winded, hard to grasp array of thoughts, of exploration of the depths psyche. His approach to lifestyle, to leading, ruling, did leave him lonely. He wondered, if Branko or other leaders had experienced the same, the howling loneliness, or if it was inevitable, that he wasn't unique in having this self-awareness, this dissatisfaction, even if he could shape someone, that he won't be happy. He would feel it, the forsakenness. Was is the component of unpredictability, that made relations with the true to oneself people, that he liked, - and those were very few, and met under very specific, almost destiny prescribed circumstances, - was it the randomness, the unknownness, the free will in them, that made it meaningful? Did he feel lonely, under effect of his possession, or was he like that all along? Spiraling down into the depths of his mind, uncovering the thoughts, he analyzed it as vastly and scrupulously as he could. Yet he couldn't get past it. He had no male friend, and brotherhood, despite his proclamations, despite his care for them, and their, in the very special cases, care back, he couldn't see it, he couldn't believe in it. Not after all he had been through.

The male friendship, the elusive bonding he hadn't experienced in long time. Ever since the loss of his best friend, the brother not by his blood, but by soul, the kindred soul. He couldn't find anyone matching him in these admirable qualities he sought for since the day he had lost him. Determination, truthfulness, due diligence, the sense of Fairness, he couldn't find it at all as he aged up, witnessing people being selfish, following no credo, no principles, following mindlessly like sheep the direction of the flock, no matter if they are heading down the cliff into the abyss, no matter if their life is miserable - squeezed on all sides by the same framed people as they are, with only those on the fringes feeling less tension of the boundaries, of boxes they were put into. It was first Raenyr, after he had lost him, that gave him hope, the real friend. They had been through a lot, and yet, relations turned sour, all that is left of them - are occasional encounters between the two, or through a proxy, if Rein became bored or curious enough to talk to Anwar. He didn't seem to do well with the two, as if cursed. Lacking eloquence... He did, or did Raenyr. Each shared regrets and sorrows, the blame - it was unresolved. The burden of the dialogue, of lashing out, of expressing all built up - is overbearing, - unfeasible. Memories slowly stored or compartmentalized memories away, leaving only faint, ghostly traces of inexplicable emotions, the ineffable. And yet, if they needed to move forward, they had to do it, but neither did, feeling discomfort to admit, that they cared. All that is left of their friendship, are old memories, one inducing cringe and no more the original emotions that they gave to both. He felt that it was the same case to Raenyr, he did assume, - but it was a good guess. He still keeps yet the pendant, the material remains of their friendship, it was somewhere deep in his chest, hidden away so it won't bother him, yet it did now. He took a deep sigh, realizing it was for the better - perhaps he just never liked Raenyr, and he - never did him, hence the disrespect, hence the lack of remorse over the wrongdoings. The looking down at him, as immature, as problematic... It pained Reinhard, to think of all the time he had wasted on him, yet allure was there. For a male friend, like the one he lost. And Raenyr gave him the best illusion of it, one of the first people he had met, only to lead to a huge disappointment, the empty, unfulfilled promises, of friendship, of comradeship. Reinhard's dream now was to... Invite him on one night to the palace of his Empire, show off his big, happy family, and make him jealous. That's what he desired deeply for.

Others were there, but they disappeared, or didn't know the true him. He started to reveal less and less of himself, being hurt each time, at the lack of response.

Asero was... An odd man, the encounters with him were nothing conventional - from the start the two got into arguments. Rein didn't think much of him - knowing how the council had operated, including Asero - doing nothing, sitting on their arses, claiming benefits, the typical politicians. He knew from the start it was a trade relationship, and rarely showed his character thus, onlyon rare occasions, perhaps due to bored, or presence of others, he did reveal himself - joking, confessing things after being on the seventh cloud from his successful interactions... He felt less lonely with the man, - he wasn't an ordinary mercenary, like Alek, he had more character to him, other than pursuit of money, which Rein didn't understand. He was a woman chaser, a heartbroken romantic - and at that revelation, Reinhard became interested in the man, intrigued at his personality. With few unexpected fun moments, the winning of the dancing competition at the Opening of Evenfall, - with the sharing of lewd jokes and stories about women and adventures, they started to bond. Yet the dark creeped along, the disrespect, the contempt he sensed - in each word. He brushed it off aside, hoping for the best, in one's true nature. But it came to the harsh return into reality, the dispelling of the fragile illusion, - with the death of Cassandra. He stared back at him, almost sadistically, to set him off, as he perceived, as to dominate him. It was all along. The jump at the ball, the jokes, the cold shoulders, the retorts, the lack of transparency, the unwillingness to speak of his women after he spoke about his, the humiliations... He shouldn't had allowed it. He should had maintained his self image. You allow them once, and they test you further, till you are nothing. He shouldn't bait himself with the fake promises of friendship, there is no male friendship, there is a contract with a merchant, there is a brother bound by strong family ties, as was his first and only friend, the lost one, the one he obsesses over, and there are the admirers, the slaves. The closest he could think of to a friend, hard to categorize, was Velmont, he was like convergence of them all, not fitting into any category.

And thus, rationalizing, Reinhard had come to conclusion, that there was no pure male friendship, only the derivatives of it, impure from the glorified concept. That loneliness he experienced, in lack of a friend, was natural, and it shouldn't be bothered with then. It perhaps had also explained, why he felt comfortable with women mostly, friends, if there were such at all, or lovers.

 

[LuxTop]

Sunderday, 19th of Snowdown, 2310
As far back as I can remember I always wanted to be a romancer.
It started off from the flying over my head innuendos. Patrons out of the sudden laughed, and I laughed with them too, not understanding what was so funny. The laughter grew natural with time, as I genuinely enjoyed the jovial atmosphere on subconscious level, but I never got to understand the subtleties, or even the more direct ones, be they visual on stage or verbal, my perception missed them. Guess the innocence, or the blankness, the void I had, was never easy to kill in me, to fill. I only came to understand innuendos, ironically, when I had no more freedom, when I was under control of the stern, uptight nobles. They covertly enjoyed the unconventional life, as I got to know later, but for us at the time - they were Mr. and Mrs. Right. Picked me up from the boring, exhausting, and prospectless lumbermill, they had no child of their own, and I was a good actor to play the role of one in their eyes. They were our loyal customers, selecting fine specimen of wood for their furniture, and timber for their fireplace. Between examination of the materials, and negotiation of the prices, they took a stroll around the property, venturing out to the felling area, where I happened to spent most of my time whenever they arrived. They had eyes always set on me, I was diligent, hardworking, and they took me as some kind of philosopher when I was sitting mindlessly on the rock after the hard day of work, gazing into the distance, listening to chirping of the birds, to the rush of water from the springs. They must had thought I was some kind of genius, pondering about the high matters, when I was just sitting on my arse, trying to relax, catch a breath before being called back to logging again. But these qualities were outmatched by the most important one to them. I was the blank state, pure as the water running in the deep woods. A sponge ready to soak in anything in its proximity, for I was living in the desolate place, remote from the society, barely having any contact with what they despised, the worldly. And so, they picked me. Some money to the lumbermill, for I was, after all, a worker at it, the son aspect wasn't important to the family, they were ruthless businessmen, all about money. They were happy to get rid of an extra mouth to feed, and gain a pay for it. Promises of larger orders, few coins to cover a year of my work in the mill, my worth to them, and I was away with the pair, in a carriage, on my way to the new life. Under them, my routine drastically changed - from having to raise up in the early morning, when there was no hint, no inkling of the first sunrays, to take care of the morning wood, that is, chopping down the trees before the sunrise, - now to raising slightly later, with the sunrays, to do the morning recitations of the texts before the breakfast. If I was good enough at that, retelling the texts I was assigned with, I would be well-fed, if not, I would not be fed at all. It was harsh, challenging, a slip of the word - and I could fail it entirely, subjected to starvation for the rest of the day, but I didn't complain. I was too grateful at being in the warm and cozy place, my eyes were all star-dazzled with the rich décor surrounding me, it was so alien, so captivating, - for me, a lad raised in the woods. Moreover, for once I felt no strain upon my muscles, no more backpains, no more rigidity in the worked up limbs. And all I had to do, to enjoy the lavish life in this straight out of the fairy-tale place, with all the comforts imaginable, was to memorize the sentences. I thought - an easy thing to do, much easier than the excruciatingly exhausting physical work, to reproduce what is written on a piece of paper, just the few sentences. Then it grew to paragraphs, progressively, - reaching to full pages, chapters, sections, and eventually books in whole. I made many mistakes, learning, starving, at times, barely surviving on scraps that I somehow found, do not even know how. All for the sake of reciting the texts for the zealous couple. The texts were mostly religious, the nonsense they loved, although, I do recalling few times reciting a love poem or a funny story at request when Mr. or Mrs. Right were especially grumpy, in rare moment when the both were no more uplifted by piety as their boring lives dawned on them. They became as if different people, no more strict, no more judging, appearing actually happy to me in their unhappy moments, being relieved by the stories of different content. And so was I, happy, relieved. These refreshing, engaging stories I memorized with ease, and retold them so too, - they were natural to me, unlike the lifeless religious tractates, the verbiage I couldn't understand after all these years, even now.

I must had been an irredeemable heretic from back then, if not from birth...

I looked at these romantic and silly motifs with adoration, for they in the moments of my physical hunger, had satisfied my spiritual longing. Yes, despite the shallowness of the romantic stories, the naïve belle-letters as one would call them, despite the occasional peek of vulgarity in them, they were spiritual to me. Even at naturally making the mistakes, not eating anything at all as the punishment... I wasn't preoccupied with the sustenance. I was full. For these belle-letters had plunged me into the other world I was cut off from. I recalled fondly, with the help of the texts, the days of freedom, in the taverns, full of plays, full of stories, reminiscing of the past. I didn't understand yet the dirty jokes, what was so funny to the patrons, but I developed an attachment to those times. With these memories, invoked by the literature, I fled away mentally from the darkness of confinement, of the suffocating grip of the starched collar onto my neck, of the ironed sleeves that had felt like shackles. And when the mundane took me back into reality, dispelling the blissful mental state I was in, I felt hopeless. With the return of their favourite reeking from religious morals texts, I felt like a bird in cage, longing to spread out my wings, to feel once again the currents of the air raffling my feathers. I did live like that, sporadically enjoying breaths of fresh air, with asphyxiation halted for some time as romantic books reemerged and dissipated, and I lived this way, praying the oldies would get bored or change their tastes entirely, no more being needy, no more being weird and dependent on their deities. It was tough for me, to go back and forth from freedom to confinement, the spiritual one, and I was pained. The desperate times were testing my will, when I was on the brink of losing it, this is when she came to play.

A girl from a nearby mansion - a neighbour. Her visit was the brightest moment of my life at the time, even brighter than the initial joy of seeing all the lavishness of the estate. The joy she gave to me wasn't material, susceptible to age, like the increasingly wearing of the shelves from constant pulling and putting back of the books onto them, - it was her company, her presence, that gave me comfort, the transcended, eternal one, that wasn't prone to wear, that had constant returns of positive emotions. I grew accustomed to the material, the warmth of hearth, the softness of the pillows, the gloss of dinnerware, but not to her. In all this time at the estate with the oldies, I barely had anyone to talk to, just the other siblings, the twins, who excelled far better than me in the memorization of the texts. I naturally envied them, and didn't resonate with them - they were also younger than me, the age and background differences between us were vast. So I had no one to talk to, along with experiencing hunger for nourishment, to sustain my body, I experienced the craving for communication like in those memories I cherished, and in those building-up dreams I hadn't experienced - from the books. She, unlike the twins, unlike the patrons I had good times with, was larger than life itself, surpassing even the worshipped by me cliche heroines in those cheap novels. She was slightly older than me, well-read, well-mannered, and yet, not fitting the mould, just like me. There was something off about her. And it didn't take long for her to show it, through her friskiness, she was of the naughty kind, not playing by the rules. As Mr. Right was verifying the paragraph of text I just recited to him, checking if all words, all the pauses, that the enunciations were right, she formed with her hands horns behind his head. I couldn't contain the laughter, and got reprimanded for it, in front of her, but I didn't feel mad at her - for there was some other emotion I felt, the fluster, at her showing her tongue to me, at her, causing me to defy the expectations I was living up to for so long - of the nauseatingly old-fashioned noble boy, a fervent believer, a never misbehaving one, ruthlessly efficient and perfect. She also made me experience emotions I had almost forgotten about, - one I was deprived the most, the laughter. The estate was devoid of those - anytime emotion, other than the God-fearing tremble, or one of gratitude and respect to the hosts, showed, they could punish you.

She kept on the act like that on weekends, but I liked it, I was entertained by the insolences she excused herself, even if at my cost. I grew used to doing without a meal at her visits, feeding off the emotions, the reactions she showed, and those induced in me. It reminded me of the older days I was so desperate to relive, of one in the taverns, and yet, she added to them something I couldn't comprehend at the time. I felt more than entertained in her presence. Time went on, - and eventually Mr. Right grew feisty, the old punishments didn't do the job at disciplining me, and he thought of resorting to harsher ones, - but she cut in, and convinced him that I will be no more acting silly. Under the guise of guiding me, teaching me the holy ways, she frequented me more often, off the weekends now. You couldn't imagine how happy I was, to feel loneliness in lesser magnitude, able now to talk to her in private, without the couple watching over us. And oh boy, we did. Like chatterboxes, we talked on and on. We discussed books we enjoyed, growing increasingly more comfortable to discuss the forbidden ones, secular in nature, with bit of spice in them. I was on the seventh cloud, finding a kindred soul, I grew in friendship to her, always longing to meet her, without realizing my attraction to her like in the books we had been reading. She snuck in to the estate the books from her home, increasingly shocking ones. They were by all means tame still, by my current standards, but you could imagine the romantic books with passionate kisses were the taboo, the sacrilege under the roof of pious fanatics. Her methods in bringing in the contraband were so creative, from putting the books into her basket and filling it up to the brim with apples, to cutting out in a thick religious tractate a section to put an impious novel in. The ingenious ways...

You could get why I like upping the game, like she did, - it is full of excitement, to subvert one's expectations, to exert out of oneself this depthless creativity that those living in the mundane couldn't conceive of.

Laughter, fun, the fresh air, loosening of shirt's collar and unbuttoning of the sleeves, I needed it desperately, and she gave it to me, helping me moreover to understand what I liked as I read the books with her. You could imagine, with the fever I worshipped the past, the triumph of the human spirit in these cheap but lively taverns, how I ended up worshipping her, the Oracle, the Revealer of Truth, of Meaning of Life. She was... So real yet, unlike those angels, unlike those figments, she was corporeal, she was humble, responsive. I developed the gluttony for the snuck-in by her romance books. My obsession over them knew no end, as the thirst was insatiable. She was by my side, reading them with me, observing, being the perfect guide, in moments of confusion she had brought clarity, in moments of melancholy, she cried on my shoulder, breathing in rhythm, in moments of joy, she shared those with me, laughing, smiling, blushing. All was beautiful. And it couldn't get better - that one day the strict oldies had to leave for a long trip, leaving us alone in the estate. We continued on living by their accord for some time, keeping it quiet in the halls, still sneaking away into the hideouts, as if they were present. Their presence, with the omnipresence of their stern portraits, was still felt throughout the mansion, it was imposing, hardly receding from the back of our minds. We almost hallucinated at times their stern voices echoing through the empty halls, the idea of their return, of them catching us, give us shivers. I still wore the uniform, I still found myself waking up around the same time as scheduled by them, with the descent of the sunrays, ambling to the fireplace in the living room where the two usually sat, awaiting for the before the breakfast test of my memory, of my spirit, of my patience, of my obedience. I felt none of it suffocating me anymore, but in the back of the head, I kept up the routines in some capacity. The old habits were hard to overcome. I was conditioned. Slowly, step by step, we were getting out of that mode, together. No more she had to sneak into the mansion with the romance books, hidden within the cut out religious tome. No more I wore the uniform. No more we followed the schedule, doing as we please. Step by step, to the freedom.

Their downfall, the end of the habits, came with us picking the lock to their private quarters. We found there something unimaginable. Their private library, the holy of the holies, was full of spicy books, they were mindbogglingly shocking at the time for me, though, now I look back at it and laugh out loud. The innocence of youth I had, and not so long ago... We read them through and through, with the mental control over me of these imposing figures slowly dwindling, along with my respect for them. We did then as we pleased, - eventually we started dating, I was head over the in love with her, you could imagine it would had been a fine life for me, in that estate, we could had found a living together, even if we were kicked out one day upon their return... But that's not what happened. What happened was... Subversion of the expectations, in ways I couldn't had imagined. The sweetness grew into cruelty, she had defied all my composed images of her, in my head. It is hard for me to recall those days, and what followed after, at some time it was easy to share, but it is just... Too much to bear, for some reason, now, as I understand myself better. My obsession of reliving that first love I had experienced, even if it wasn't love at all. I try to relive it, woman after woman, I even pick them based on the same characteristic that she had, not physical, but personality wise...

Or am I overthinking?

All of these thoughts, the reminiscing, the analysis of oneself, after another sporadic romantic encounter in Eldpoint. All I wished, was to recount my life, my romances, get to the truth why I do not feel empty meeting them, bonding, why do I enjoy these moments more than anything else, even adventuring? Do I just enjoy that much presence of women, do I have the flair for talking with ladies, impressing them, getting reactions from them, or is it a deep need I couldn't realize yet, to fix this hurtful past I had, that I couldn't stop obsessing over? Reliving and reliving the past, trying to fix it. What is it? Which one of these two, is true?

-------------------------------------------------------------
The late Night, Eldpoint

Upon finishing a bottle of whiskey, the heavy stuff, I was still troubled by the brought up past. I didn't expect it to bring in the rush of emotions. I told so easily the story to Carla, to Iris... Perhaps to Lierim, though, we never had time to talk for too long, we were busy. Ayda, I didn't bother her with my past, I never felt like that, we always had the chaotic present to deal with, and the future to pursue, together. I was, and still am, deeply startled, that out of the sudden I felt this non-washing off with the drinks melancholy, this fear, getting all analytical about my first crush, my first girlfriend, and love, as I had thought. She was pretty but I had seen since then more stunning women. She was... Personality wise definitely hooking, although cruel, double-faced. Argh... Thinking about her is hard for some reason, I am not the type to evade a peculiar phenomenon, nor setting off for later something I would have to confront, deal with, eventually, but this is too overbearing for me. I set it off aside to not eat myself alive, all the thinking, accepting that the most plausible answer was simply that I loved women so passionately, that I liked bonding, despite having a fiancée. She didn't mind, we talked over it, we set out the rules. Thus, I just embraced it, as the answer to my conundrum. Chasing after women, appreciating their personalities, their eye colours, their smiles, their voices, and much more, without trying to converge the analysis of characteristics I liked back to her. The thought, the persistent thought, that it had something to do with her, was revolting, was frightening to the core. I need to chase it away.

Spoiler: Theme Song

 

[LuxTop]

A short story inspired by a recent encounter. It will be delving into psychology of Reinhard.
Partially inspired by portrayal of Norma Desmond from Sunset Boulevard.

Blessday, 10th of Truebirth, 2310
I find myself treading in angst of boredom along the path of loneliness, occasionally stranding off to bump into another ethereal plane, one that, at my disappointment, I would pass through like a ghost - only to return back to the track, instead of discovering myself in a worthy world. Rankled by the pondering, of why am I following this route, why am I joyless, why do I keep on trying hard - to bump myself into something, - I had no answer for the long time. Only the clingy sense of dreaded dullness.

It was an unremarkable visit to Evenfall. In preparation to the war, I hoped to catch a lady to converse with, - they are my muses, they are my breaths of fresh air in the suffocating ennui. As ordinarily, I had a meal in the library, beefsteak, freshly cooked by me right at the site, - never cared for the fire hazards, - accompanied by a couple of glasses of dry as my sense of life wine. To no avail, - I sat there, - alone and miserable, with no one to join me in the meal. For hours. Just. Pure. Silence. It was no different from home. Ever since her vanishing... Defeated, as it was reaching my training window, - I keep to a very precise schedule, - I packed and went to the back of Evenfall. It was the closest place that bore any significance to me - that's where I had a worthwhile clash, - with Kaatreya, - and that's where I had overcome the debilitating paranoia. I practiced there for hours, - exhausted, - but the place kept me away from a mental breakdown. So strong were the memories of the past. Feeling something. Instead of the void. It was Past, that subverted my expectations, past, that yet somehow had an offering to me. Meaning, there was something to life still to enjoy, in the vast sea of disappointments. A thought like that kept me lukewarm. Yet this warmth subsided as I turned the corner and saw a literal fluff of orange shielded by the gigantic roots of the colossus tree.

This fluff turned out to be a Caparii. I was never too fond of them, - bar Aza, - guess he earned my friendship and respect, despite his shamefully poor hygiene and grotesque culinary preferences. You see... Caparii, almost all of them - are hippies, - they are tree huggers, nature-worshipping zealots, - fae lovers and too good of orators to leave a burn even on me -- I still recall Freia, - what a killjoy. Mhm... But I am digressing. Either way, - this Caparii I saw before, - it was no different from them, - it was somewhat of an oddball, - roaming around Evenfall, click-clacking with its hooves while I envisioned the war plan against the Ashstadt. Disturbed, I stared down at it from the platform, seeing it like a puny, mindless ant. Perhaps I was moody, to see a stranger in a negative light just from their presence. After all, perhaps, - I expect all to be like me. I followed my emotions, my logic, - trying to realize what was their source - what propelled me to dislike this innocent Caparii. I didn't get to the answer that day, but I followed her - trying to get it. I followed this mindlessly wandering oddball of fluff, - before leaving them to their own devices as they didn't confront me, nor did anything remarkable. I drank upstairs, - and then my friend Maliddan joined, saving me from boredom. We shared jokes, dreams, ambitions - that's what I respect and expect in people, - those who lack these qualities - are utter disappointments to me. Like Sydri. We had quite the conversation, - and as it turned out, - Caparii was listening to us, - I didn't mind, - it would be good for a goodie-good like her to learn of blood, - of the infernal things, - the truth as to what the World is, - one may never live a satisfying life, not confronting the worst of the world. People who do not expose themselves to evil, to gruesome, - are either eaten alive when it catches them, - which I do not want to happen, ironically, to people like her, no matter how annoying they are, - or they are just plain boring, static, - never developing. Perhaps... That's one of the reasons I looked down at her, - the moment she showed she was meek goodie-goodie. Such people - the majority of them - I avoid, as it would be the waste of time, - or confront, - for my own amusement, or in exploration of questions like those that had been troubling me - on loneliness, on joy, on being so different from the rest, on emotions, - on views on society.

As I was saying, - I was turning around the corner, leaving, there turned out to be this fluff. I was in uppity mood to confront them, - since I know no other way to communicate with these good-hearts. I enquired, - why they hadn't ran away at sight of me. If they heard the stories of fiendish invasion. As they started to answer my questions, I noted, to my disappointment, or luck - as I was searching for entertainment, - them talking in the weak, shaky voice. Naturally, I, as a superiour one, lectured them, on how to not be treaded on, on how to survive in life. While lecturing them, I had a few good laughs - it was worth it. They apologized for something and I told: "Sorry? You will be sorry for life with that attitude." Or that smile, - illogical to me, - I asked her, what was it caused by, - and they had no response. Oddball. I somehow then ended up ranting on the gutless, spineless Sydri, that this Caparii reminded me of, and it was quite satisfactory to let steam out on this disappointing twat that ran away... Either way, - my lectures didn't help in shaping out of the Caparii a proper person, - they were satisfied in their meekness, - told me they do not midn being a coward, - that there were other ways they were making people feel better, than talking. And I think I had the best joke-comeback of the month, -- "what do you mean - you do not need to make people feel better? Are you a clown?" -- Gosh, - what an entertainer, - you must had seen their face! Hah, - the blob of hair that is, that stood up. My-my... Either way, - I ended up monologuing, - as we often are forced by the society, -by the so called "normal people", - boring and dull, and weak, estranging us - the whole people, that they dub as villains. Badly for me, - the monologuing didn't last long, as I got bored at their silence, - and irritated, - at them missing my question. I wanted to know badly, why they smiled -- since I didn't say anything nice. They had no answer. I told of how world is disappointing. They had no substantial answer. It was just... Like talking to a wall, - bar architecture, - at least something commendable in this Caparii, - alongside their bravery to carry on conversation with me. Mhm... Digressing. Digressing. Mumbling. Blundering.... Either way, - I think I got the answer thankfully, from this unremarkable encounter, - of why it is so lonely. Of why the world is full of disappointments. It isn't me getting melancholic, finicky, unhinged, detached and cynic - in my pursuit of the demonic and dreams unfathomable, with ambitions unbound. I am great, - it is the World that got disappointing. Nothing but the fluff, - and dust in the eyes. One that may be turned into beautiful and perfect glass, - in the raging fires of Hell.
One day, - the purifying fires shall cleanse the World of boredom and evil.