Malphaestus
Touched by the Apocalypse
INTEREST CHECK
This is an example of the beginning of the story, and also serves as a good basis for what to expect.
Time is dying.
This is an example of the beginning of the story, and also serves as a good basis for what to expect.
Time is dying.
"What is there to say, the history you knew is gone." A voice suddenly beckoned as you opened your eyelids, gazing up at a boring sky, devoid of cloud or nuance. Trying to move, you realized quickly, that you couldn't. "Ease on the effort, you aren't alive just yet," the voice added, a slight change of pitch evident in this contrarily unaccounted-for individual- Wait, you are not yet... Alive? Wanton efforts to express your confusion was evident, but true enough, nothing...
But who is it that is so confidently interacting with you? After all, this seems rather bizarre does it not? You are dead, you remember your death well.
"Well, I've given you enough time to get in touch with yourself, so let me just tell you about time-" the voice suddenly stopped, as if struck by a realization of tremendous proportion. "You cannot see me, can you?" Oh.
Two hands quickly entered your field of vision, as they grabbed onto your shoulders, and dragged your unresisting corpse up against a boulder, and the reveal was quite outlandish: as your... caretaker came into view, all you could see was that of the body of a warrior, but lacking a head. But speaking as if there was nothing wrong. Perhaps even more strangely, on his back, was a wooden doll as large as you, embracing the man, as if not to fall off. Though you couldn't be sure if the fact that it had as many features as the sky itself was more or less disturbing.
He took a few steps back, after having brushed the many layers of dust, having migrated from covering your body's every expanse to covering every inch of his, from the arms. "Perfect," he interrupted himself, as if to stop repeatedly brushing himself forcefully.
"Time is dying, and I brought you back to life." The syllables were delivered with expansive vocal expression, carrying the artistic eloquence of an amateur bard, but one with potential. "You will now live in the world at the end of time, and I will help you to do so."
This strange individual then, as if to pause with intention, reached for his shoulder, where the doll was holding onto his upper body, pulling mightily at its arm, janking it out of balance, allowing it to fall flat onto the ground, before immediately taking a seat for himself right besides it.
"By the way, from this moment on, you are the enemy of the world."
He added nonchalantly, pulling his sword from its mount along the back of his hip, holding it as if it were a flute, the hilt and the blade, pushing it against his mouth that did not exist.
"And I am your friend, my name is Truth. Welcome."
Then, with no words with which to sing, and no mouth with which to play, he performed.
And you were brought back to life bathed in the melody of dusk.
And you first saw the land around you, around all of you:
The Land at the Dusk of Time, scorched by the sun, decorated by the myriad flora of rich colours of grey. The familiarity of grass, forest, river, and snow a far cry from what you now found yourself in the midst of. Encircling the depressed ground was an endless forest of corpseless crucifixes both thick and thin, and littering the ground were the remainless remnants of war: arrows, swords, equipment, and shields. Flowing along the northward winds were the ephemeral whispers of the depraved and despairing, carried toward the looming, bewildering, and mind-shattering presence of the sun which stood motionless upon the northern horizon.
Except it was not. The longer you gazed at its attractiveness, the more you could sense your mind warping, and your sense of reality breaking. "That is no sun," you spoke without realization, neither did you know how you knew, nor why you said it, but no matter. You recieved your response from the ever-helpful, forcing you to snap out of your percieved bewitched enchantment.
"You're not wrong," Truth spoke, nonchalantly, as he rested his flute-sword against his torso.
"So what is it?"
"Some things just are. Others aren't," he retorted, before continuing, "so what will you do, or do you want help finding out?"
You could sense a faint smile across Truth's face, save the fact that he didn't have one, as he continued.
