The Furies are at home in the mirror

[MalfGuy2]

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I

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“The trader kept opening his mouth to try to plead his way through with me, convinced of something greater of mine,”
“But the old cripple of a man I wore simply shook his head and sighed.”

“He offered his estate, his business, his spot on the city’s council, only to be interrupted by his retinue stopping the carriage. We were outside what was presumably his home, surrounded by a grandiose vineyard; My tiring eyes spotted many a young laborer watering rare grapes of the Tilandrean Rhone, of Sauvignon, even Ranceti Mourvedre;”

“But none of the workers were clothed beyond the simplest of cotton to swaddle themselves and keep decency.”

“Further up the dirt path still, at the stony pavers to his home, I looked upon a work combined of marble and limestone – Architectural flows integrated with whatever all the local lesser noblaisse regarded as ‘fine art’. Etchings of unknown heroes & cities long since past, decorated by solid golden inlays.”

“His wife ran out to greet us, a freshly young babe caressed in one arm, a hand tugging along another one of the merchant’s house-servants.”

“In that same breadth, he offered me his labourers, his workers, even his home; Yet still, I refused. What use did an old man have for an elaborate living?”

“As we went inside to the shuffling of embroidered silks and linens, finer raiments garbing his family, the trader continued to offer me more, yet more, until he began offering his family, itself.”

“First his parents, the older folks’ arrangement upstairs, dining together on only the best butcheries and cuts of this world; Then, himself, as if he were but another pawn or plaything in the masses; Then, even in front of his wife, he offered her to a questioning scowl, throwing away what little pretense of love there were:”

“Then, he offered the unthinkable.”

“The trader Magus turned to his sons, his daughters, and pointed their youth out to me; That I may be cared for in my final days to whatever all comfort I desired, that I may have mine own petty merchants’ kingdom,”

“But this time, I did not simply refute his constant advances and wanton exceptionalism.”

“Suddenly, I seized upon his wife, the baby daughter in her arms; A mother’s cry issued, a terrified look between me and the merchant. The two began hastily arguing over whatever flight of fancy the Magus noble had had,”

“As I shuffled outside, so, too, did the din of the argument slowly follow behind. I could hear the distant wail and whine of the woman scorned, contrasting against the vision of the baby daughter in my swollen, knubby hands. Her tiny, innocent smile and blank eyes followed mine as I held her out in front of me.”

“In that moment, I looked into mine baby daughter’s eyes, and divined her immortal Soul to ask…”

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II

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The vermillion and emeraldine runes around you dissipate, if for but a moment.
A childer's eyes greet yours; Too tiny to fully register.
But enough that a spark of familiarity, some divine inspiration passes -
And so, too, does a tragic line pass from her.

"It's been like, a decade. But he's fine!"
"This one doesn't bite people."

"Merp."

You try to tell yourself & her friends that you aren't a person.
Funny animal noises only mean so much;
Fleeting moments pass you by, but something sticks to you.
A singular sheaf of sketching canvas is draped from your wing...

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"S-stay away, beast!"
"You're not natural... Your 'hunting' doesn't belong in this world!"

The Werewolf manages a moment of higher thought spared as the fight wages on.
"I.F.F. ping detected. Enemy retreating."

Can't dodge forever.
Keep attacking.

"RAAUUGGH!"

A direct hit.

"Intended. The enemy is blinded."
"Systems overload. The Mana Cannon used up most of its charges."

Your (admittedly) fluffier prey manages to escape, albeit, not without having slaked your hunger.

The Timestream Runes continue to shift and scatter your vision across the treeline, offering little respite from your duty;

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Day in, day out.
It's always a battle that you feel, tugging at your limbic system, forcing you to think again...
I don't want to think.

"It's not about what you want."

The simultaneous stench of death & the soothing caress of emeraldine light scratch your surface.
Traces of your quarry, being used to...
Heal you?
The pain of Occult-tinged briars colliding against your attunement to the Timestream and Lifestream subsides, replaced by the vision of a green cloak & obsidian-purple armour.
"Grey..?"
Their own runic constructs flicker about, deliberately trying to rewrite the Arcanery that binds you;

On the opposite side, Svengalf is brute-forcing the healing process with the distinctive touch of Life Magic itself.

"I trust, In good hands for now."

He stepped away to let Grey continue along with whatever specialized convocation occurs,
But your sight blurs away once more...

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The weight of eons falls upon you as you float in the centre of the Sanctum of Creation.
You pick up a psionic wave emitting from you, but not yourself:
It is a voice you have never heard before.
"What was, will be."
"What will be, was."

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III

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“’Is this really the future that you wanted?’”
…
Kynodisme purposely paused here. Held breath. Some kind of scowl and downturned head motion comes from the Monster before another line comes,
“And so,”

“I curled my wrist around where her shoulder should be in the baby swaddle,”

“And dashed her brain out across the stony paved road.”

“They threw away the future…”

The floating textbooks shut with some poetic finality to the dissipation of the Timestream runes that previously empowered whatever all Kynodisme was invoking. The Rebirth Potions mysteriously emptied into nothingness, his personal aurum devouring much of the Austereia and miscellanneous Aetheric components involved in a shining-gold mobius strip around him,
 

“So they deserved no future.”
"So they deserved no future."
Cognitive dissonance is a fundamentally uncomfortable feeling caused by holding conflicting beliefs and ideals.
But a mote of dust is all necessary to topple an empire; Hel needs to be perfect every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day.

You only need to be lucky once.

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"You're still a good person, right?"

You stare at the framed sketch upon the wall in your Delphinan business front.
The traces of the dead, the beloved, and the damned shimmer at your behest, but never quite coalesce into anything truly recognizable. Golden mobius strips abound, but refuse to properly empower you.
Missing ingredients.
An amalgamate.
Just like you.

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"...Really? It's still not happening, even after beating an Imperfect for funsies and all that Aether crap?"

Lore vacantly sighs as your gigantic wings dwarf the Nightview encampment tents.
Tired.
Both of you seem exhausted and worn down by the years' constant wear and tear.
You open your mouth to try to offer an excuse,
But nothing comes out.

"Then you might as well take mine."

It's said so flippantly, so casually, the suggestion barely has time to rattle in your skull before Dunsman grapples for an edge of your wings. He starts tugging you away,
To hold up an emeraldine Grimoire embossed in Austereia:

"I need Kyno's help for something."
"Regalus and Oliphr need our help."

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