Words of the Prophit
Dustin Feyder
Instructor: Kaelie Farrah
Intro. To Creative Writing
Extra Credit free write 01/18/19
draft # 2nd
Words of the Prophet
I, Jessica the Weaver, give onto you, the mice of Graywall Keep, these words. As I sleep a voice from outside time whispers me thoughts. My dreams stir. In the dreams that I dream as these words take shape, I lay on my stomach.
Blood drips down my thighs, the blood of motherhood. I find myself in a place I have not been with companions I do not yet know. A white wolf on my left, a lonely image of fatherhood brought low by five spirits, the ghost grips him by the manhood with their teeth pulling at him until he cries, a marsupial with one ear, her hands uniquely clean of guilt, a bat with hungry eyes, a dove with bloodied feathers. My hands are pinned to my bosom, I have only the power to turn my eyes. Aloft, hangs in the sky, I can see one of the Grate Old Things, its name yet do I not know. This tongue has not the words to describe the majesty that fills my eyes.
On the shadow atop which I lay is cast thereby a monkey with a dark coat. The Grate Old Thing breaths a labors breath, and the ground does moan. "At the Tree of Choice do you stand. And I ask onto you. Is it best to give life or take life?"
The dark-coated monkey stands to quack before, at last, should words find the monkeys lips "I give you back your life, that you may take life from me and let the ring of rebirth grow."
With those words now, I can see the blood of motherhood drip down the thighs of the monkey, and the Grate Old Thing has vanished from our eyes. The Monkey folds its arms cradling its chest.
But then the sky should open, and a clockwork angel spreads its grace onto the earth. The natural stands in opposition to the unnatural. The clockwork angel holds out a threatening hand "you have taken onto yourself that which should not be. Life is death, and now you must stand at the tree of life and death. You wish to give your life? I will take it."
The monkey is filled with the life, the eyes of mortals lock with the eyes of god, and the monkey stands with arms wide. The sword of judgment finds the hands of the machine. But now my eyes grow dim. I can see no more. The screaming hammering metal forces my ears to fold. A phrase is repeated twelve times as a bell rings, it is like a church being called to mass "I am me!" The voice cries eleven times, yet on the twelfth, the phrase should change most unexpectedly "I am Still me!"
The Grate Old Thing whispers with a dying breath "Before this is over, you shall be just what I am." A reminder, words that will be spoken many of a time. "The Lonely Star." It pleads "I have tried many of a times to go there. But these feet will not take another step." Disjoined thoughts and ideas, a feeling of ideal grief. I feel the thoughts of one that is not myself. A call to action one heard fare before the meaning will be laid bare.
These words and images I will care with me as I walk across the land. I will seek out song singers and soothsayers, wizards and fellow weaver, I will speak these words in hushed tones in the hopes that my eyes will soon open. But now I must lay this pin at my side. My children wake, and my love soon should be home. I have done my deeds today as a storyteller, now I must do my works as a mother.
***
In a tiny church, hidden in the depths of a cave, a young knight returns home. He flips down the hood of his green shroud then drops his cape onto the ground revealing the plated leather armor thereunder. Odidimus Grayland is his name, he is amongst the 8th generation of knights breed and born in the walls of the old church. These walls were not constructed by the Grayland, or by any other Kobolt. This majestic place is another relic of what is called 'the Third Grate Race.'
Jessica the Weaver waltzes over to her beloved, dressed in the Crimson Robe that marks her as the one true Weaver, her bloodstone pendant hangs between her breast. The Weaver is a powerful woman in the church. She is charged with walking between the clans, caring for the ill, and granting the last will of the dying. She is the spiritual leader of the people. Jessica kneels down taking the cape from around Odidimus feet, her eyes turn up looking to her lover. "the rest of the regiment returned hours ago."
Odidimus walks forth looking up at one of the many mighty stained-glass widows "Cowards, all of them. when the river cats stepped up to the shore, they fled leaving me alone to voice our will." As he talks four children run up to greet their father; two boys, Timothy and Chase, two girls, Jenna and Mazzea.
The stained-glass reveals a symbol, two armies, one of winged men armed with spears with the letter "T" cut into their silver-plated armor, the other men adorned with animal skins like that of the cat people. The pelt waring barbarians run from the winged warriors "I fear" Odidimus explains "we are growing undisciplined, ununified." Odidimus looks to his lover "once upon a time did not all the clan's wave but one flag?"
Jessica slides up alongside Odidimus to start unbuckling the straps of his armor for him. "Yes, but that was ages ago. Not since the eon of the Jade King has such a thing been our way."
Odidimus can't seem to pull himself away from the stained-glass window, the likeness of the winged warriors burning into his soul. "we need a symbol, something we can gather behind for strength. Our stories, our legends. Something that draws them all together." Odidimus quickly turns to Jessica nearly pushing her over in his excitement. "My beloved, what was this building during the last age?"
Jessica rests her back against the wall. Illuminated by torchlight shining in through the window, Jessica's arms fold under her breast as she pushes her glasses up on her nose "It was called a 'monastery' in the age of the third grate race men came here to offer tribute to cosmic monsters in hopes of satiating them"
Odidimus eyes go wide as he tries to imagine what that must have meant "did they fear these monsters?"
"or they loved them." Jessica shuts her eyes as past lives start to play out in her mind "they loved and feared the old ones so much so as to drive their race into extinction as they debated which of the old ones to worship."
Odidimus smiles and bites one hand thinking aloud. "Such devotion could be useful if only we could harvest it..."