Brainstorming.
“This is the orbituary of the universe. Ours is ancient, we are living through the end of its lifespan. This world is black and white. Into blackness, it shall return.”
“The great cycle is coming to an end. The aristocracy is weak, corrupt and obsolete. They cannot alleviate the coming famines and wars, just as they’ll never strain their necks to gaze at the dimming nightsky.”
“What is that stone?”
“This is the orbituary of the universe. Ours is ancient, and we are living through the end of its lifespan. This world is black and white. Into blackness, it shall return.”
“At the beginning, there were indeed only two. But what you fail to realize is just how old our universe is. What we conceptualize as gods, when the people they yielded from had countless aeons to ascend to what we consider godhood, it’s mere fiction. They were man and woman. Together they made this paradise for their children, where everything has gone so horribly wrong.”
“Their desire for perfect peace was the fatal flaw of their otherwise intelligent design. Because there is no balance in perfection. For anything to exist, it must be wounded first. A line in a circle. Cut of ink on paper. That wound is life. Mortality is the prerequisite.”
“They made countless worlds during the aoens they travelled the infinite cosmos. Before settling on ours to start a family, they had already made galaxies together. Where did they go? Where are the bones of the first-born buried?”
“Every man and woman and child whose corpse I puppeted were mercenaries, of the bloodied crown, who else? Miners mined ore for weaponry, the farmers fed the conquests. The purpose they served as my flesh puppets was more noble than that.”
“Do you know why there is no illusion magic in our world? Because ours is a poem to their love. We are their song. Ours is the final stand of sanity in a mad universe whose fire is running out. Their love was honest, it created everything we see and breathe, everything we are.”
“The order of the reapers, the order you so blindly serve, is a violent reaction to an attempt at perfection. You, dear Nembra, will find but maddening despair spilling the blood of brilliant men. Let the kingdoms burn and rest on the warming ashes.”
“It doesn’t have to end this way. Why can’t you see this, you silly man?”
“Whoever made you the authority on who dies… and especially, when?”
