Dethroning The Old Death (A Riot Quest)(ALWAYS RECRUITING)

Scripture Attempt: The Ember of a Fairy Tale

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He read the words he wrote, the quiet of his surroundings making his whisper echo as he read them aloud.
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Some nights it is easy to forget
The voices of loved ones lost to death
Fading away, without a single light
It is easy to fear who you see in the night.

A long time ago, an age that is better off never to return, there were no stars in the sky. There was no comfort to be taken from the oppressive darkness that was the night, no moonlight to shine down on the mortals below. It was a time before there were heroes; and maybe, that was what was needed for a little light.

Lost souls wander through darkness:
Wayward and devoured, empty and lifeless.
There was never a "once", only what is;
The kind taken, the cruel hurt with bliss.

It starts of like most journeys do, a soul driven by fear/belief/hope/anger/regret, and a single goal.

Despair: easy to gain and hard to surpass.
Hope: hard to gain and the easiest to lose.
Nothing would change that.
Nothing could change that.

Most heroes never lived past the first night; and after every death, those few heroes stayed their hands, afraid. Their fire and passion gone as the shadows, oppressive and far-reaching, cackled, forms twisted from their former selves as they showed off their broken ideals to the people they once wanted to protect.

Yet...

Heroes fell all the time.
None had succeeded.
Yet maybe it wasn't a hero
That this fairy tale needed.

A storyteller, long since passed the age when they once held the passion/fury/hate/hope/belief to make things better, looked up from the tales he was forced to tell.

Slowly, but ever so surely, he weaved another tale. Instead of one where the hero fell, only to rise again as a broken reflection of what once was... Another tale came into being.

Heroes are all well and good
Yet sometimes it wasn't enough
Or maybe all they truly needed
Was a little bit of hope.

As he spoke of heroes winning; and reaching a happy ending... Souls emerged from the darkness, as bright as the cruelty of an oppressive shadow, yet softer.

The souls that fell never burned so brightly.

Heroes came and went as the story spread, from the lowliest of souls to the highest and the cruelest, inspired by a fairy tale from a dying storyteller.

An ember that sparked slowly,
Until others burned just as brightly.
The stars were born in those times,
And hope ignited for the first time in years.

When the storyteller, already tired, already dying, finally fell... All those who gathered were prepared for a shadow to rise. Souls lined up to strike what came after down, if only to preserve the fledgling hope they shared. The oppressive dark would not taint the storyteller's memory.

The elder finished his tale for the last time, hidden face smiling as he felt not the choking shadows he feared, but light.

Instead of leaving behind a shattered, twisted reflection, he just... disappeared; and in the sky, a single flame burned merrily, slowly getting brighter. The only physical proof of the hero who inspired.

Somewhere else, a candle flickered to life. It was alone in a sea of unlit candles, yet ever so slowly, the candlelight grew brighter.

The Endless Matron smiled. It was too long since one was lit in the darkened world.

The stars burned the darkness away
One by one, setback after setback.
There was still light in the darkness
And with it the shadows could finally fade.

Fear burned their emotion away
Yet he still made a step.
No grand deeds were required
Just a little fairy tale.
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He hummed a melancholic tune as he watched the others, what he wrote held delicately in his hands. He would show this to Danaal, maybe he would help him rewrite it, or even just fine-tuning it for the public.

Laelas was hoping for the latter really. He was attached to the tale, even if he didn't... really remember where he was going with it.

---

...So, I have a thing? I don't know what to do with it, but I think it's nice...

EDIT: I reworded the end a little and added a verse or two to the poetry parts. I hope you all like it though!

Sidestory: Alamgir's Evenings
Late Evening in Greenvale

As our regular nightly sessions of debate and conversation come to an end, I bid my fellow 'high priests' a good night's sleep and slip away to Allister's workshop to gather my nightly antidote and several rolls of fresh bandages. With the good doctor's skills, or ex-doctor now perhaps, and the blessings of Morth, I was kept alive but Zerrakh's plague remained still and ravaged body and soul in every waking moment. I had long since discovered sleeping was an impossibility without copious, potentially deadly, amounts of alcohol and drugs to numb my senses just enough to catch a few painful hours of sleep. Drugs that I was thankful to Allister for preparing, ever since I met him many years ago.

Making my way to my hovel on the outskirts of the village, I notice a note stuck to the small bottle. I make out Allister's scratchy writing - 'Happy Birthday, Old friend. I added something special to this one.' I imbibe the antidote in one go and notice it lacks the usual horrid taste and the burning sensation is kept to a minimum. This brew actually tastes somewhat sweet and palatable for once, I'll have to thank the good doctor for that. As my senses begin to numb, I lay back against the walls and sink into a fitful slumber....

Early Morning

I wake up with a start and cough up blood and phlegm as I consider the meanings of my dreams. Dark have they been of late, each night do I hear the cackle of Zerrakh's acolytes in my ears, taunting me and urging me to take my life. Why prolong this state of misery they ask? Am I not a burden to Morth and her followers? I can release at the hands of Zerrakh, they claim. Each night, every night, ever since that day. Struggling to my feet, I grab the fresh rolls of bandages and a knife and drag my body to the nearby woods, make a fire and begin to inscribe the bandages with words of praise to Morth and scriptures in her name while I wait for Zerrakh's curse to boil.

I feel the plague course freshly through my body. Uncountable boils form on my flesh and I fail to contain the pain and shriek uncontrollably in pain as the boils enlarge and burst, spattering the surroundings with vile, toxic pus. My skin opens up and thick, black, viscous blood pours out, burning my flesh as it oozes out over fresh scars. The scar on my neck in particular burns and bleeds more than the rest and for a moment I consider ripping my own throat out to end it all, but thinking of the fresh flock I have to protect stays my hand. I continue to scream and thrash about in pain for some time, perhaps for minutes, perhaps for hours, I do not know. I only know that once I regain my composure and sanity, the sun has begun to rise. With the help of my knife, I scrape off the remaining pus and blood, lance the few remaining boils and discard my old bandages. Slowly, I wrap the fresh ones tightly over my body and gather my rags before I go around the area, thrusting a burning branch into each bit of toxic sludge I find and covering the area up.

I try to make my way back to the town to resume my preaching but stumble and crash to the ground. Struggling to my feet once more, I grab a stout branch and use it as a walking stick. It seems I'll be more exhausted than usual this day. So be it. I make my way back to the village munching a loaf of stale bread, as I avoid the farmers making their way to the field. More out of habit than any actual precaution. Allister assures me that the plague is no longer contagious. Perhaps if an individual were to catch a face-full of the pus or drink my blood, but merely being around me does not spread the contamination. And so I drag myself back to Greenvale and my fellow candle-bearers, even as I spot my family and friends out of the corner of my eye, ever following me eternally, as they ask me to leave behind my pain and suffering and join them in eternal contentment in the arms of Zerrakh...