Syraphos - The Confessions of the Red Priest

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Mike_mohawk
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Syraphos - The Confessions of the Red Priest

Post by Mike_mohawk » Tue Jan 07, 2020 2:46 pm

In the moist sewers underneath the dreadful bastion of wicked civilisation a man clad in a robe that was once a deep red but turned pink with wear sat in front of a small stack of dry surface wood.
The man rose to his feet, the testament of cruelty that was clasped around his neck clanged against the robe and the plate he wore underneath made a muffled sound.
His hair was kept in a small bun, his face full of early wrinkles and late stubbles.
He drew a bastard sword from a scabbard and discarded it carelessly. His left hand was placed on the blade.

"Lord, light my pyre so I may carry your truths like a torch in darkness
For the dark is cruel and full of terror."

His words were distinct but the hoarseness spoke volumes of what life he led.
The sword ignited as blood touched the blade, he plunged the sword into the small fireplace-altar that was constructed.
The tinder sucked in the air and an aroma of herbs and burned flowers.

The man fell to his knees and took out a small parchment and a piece of crude graphite.
"I chronicle these words to strengthen my soul and my resolve, for I have both reflected the darkness of the below but also the brilliance of your amber light.
Since the time I was shackled and thrown into the black of a ship, I have risen to be a stronger man. I have found a purpose in the shackles that bind me,
for they are shackles of the flesh, not the flame. As you command, flame conquers flesh and bends steel. So shall my flame conquer this, in your image.

But truths are important, for lies and deceit will be imprinted on the walls when the inferno you posess ravages this world before The Rebirth.
I confess these truths, not to testament my guilt, but to pass it onto paper so it may be burned away.

I drink. This would have been a severe transgression to the church. But there is no church and I admit to my defeat. But I drink to numb weakness, not to forget my strenght

I sow the seed of weakness. This is my most heinous crime towards your blinding honesty, Lord. Were I a weaker man, I would have cried and yelled. For I have incinerated a man.
The purpose of this was to scare him, to let him know pain to then balm it and show him that hardship builds a strong foundation. But my earthly master rushed the process and the
mangy beasts of the below tore him apart.
I wish to find this man. Not to lament that I lost control. For that would be a sin in itself. I need to keep my head strong. But I need to tell him what I did. With what intentions.
Clarify why he must seek it again. Perhaps I will find some proof of rebirth? Maybe the fire did burn more pure than I remember?
May there be embers in the ashes.

I have found some that are willing to break the collar I possess. But those seem to be weak-willed high on emotions of anger and vengeance. Those are admirable emotions, but they only temper brittle steel.
Their efforts seem to be selfish and without tempering and stoking the inner fire. What gift is freedom if one does not know how to use it?
Giving a child a torch without proper guidance, the child will only blind his vision or maybe even hurt his own person.


I am no child.
I am the torch.
I am your slave and only yours.

Lord of Flame, guide my fire.
Lord of Flame, let me be your torch in darkness
Lord of Flame, I commit myself to you.

Lord of Flame, guide my fire.
Lord of Flame, let me be your torch in darkness
Lord of Flame, I commit myself to you.

Lord of Flame, guide my fire.
Lord of Flame, let me be your torch in darkness
Lord of Flame, I commit myself to you.

[...]"


The chant repeated Ad Nauseum until the man closed his eyes.
“Purge the weakness within, and let strenght be born.”

He inhaled deeply and crumpled the paper into his fist and plunged the hand into the fire.
When he withdrew his hand, the paper was ash.

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