Carvings in the Wall, Still Hand in the Night

[Hierophant]

In an ordained little spot, in a place where secrets go to die...a wall claimed by a still hand in the night. Carvings on the wall, echoes of a lost son...

[Hierophant]

They spotted the walls like a pantomime, praising the world, the stars, the skies. Small and gentle hands, fit to hold quill, pressed with black ink and shadowvar purple the palms of a sweet touch, leaving behind the quiet applause of the downtrodden and forgotten.

[Hierophant]

A small shrine left before this curious wall. Dimly lit candles that never seem to fade capture the dancing flames upon the walls, making the pantomime of praise ever more vibrant, like a beating heart. Then, a depiction of blood and tragedy, of a daughter lost, as her lover weeps over her beauty frozen in death.

[Hierophant]

A depiction of the Moon cascading over a quiet Sea of Pearls.

[Hierophant]

A caricature of the Assembly, and now the wall seems complete- in the lonely, drab spot of carved artwork laid this as if the Ninth.

A deeper look at the shape of the artwork finds itself assorted in the circular of a Wheel. The pantomime of praise at the top, the Assembly bedlam at the far, bottom right; the Moon cascading over the Sea of Pearls its opposite, and the depiction of a noble woman devoured by lions and mourned by her lover at the very bottom, though looking as if to pierce the Wheel and push inward to the center.

[Hierophant]

ADAR 7787, THE TWENTY-FIFTH

In the long night, a man stumbles into a dimly lit cave. Whatever resource he had at hand to place mind to canvas, he did so; he bled his nails, he stained old clothes, he melted wax and he blew plumes of smoke and ichor. By the end, as dusk had come and gone and dawn had borne its fast, he dropped before a shrine. Not the shrine he had erected before his wayward depiction of the Wheel and omens to come, but the shrine that had always been and always will. The Absence, where secrets go to die.

A glance upon his hands as they faded and his mind felt too much to bear. He clawed at his wispy black hair, and he screamed. He screamed until the walls ached, and he wept. He begged Her of his questions, his worries, his desires and his ambitions, but She did not listen. What else is a man to do, when he stirs one morn to find he has not only forgotten his life, he has forgotten his face?

A man had went in that cave. A man had strung up the cacophony of his woes for all but the swarm to hear; and a man had put blood to stone singing sanguinare as he bid His goddess' will into his own. Gellianthos, blood of Gellema; he no longer believed in his own mortality, for what was precious life to begin with? Dancing to and fro with the dangers of bedlam and he stood at this point in time something else. Perhaps nothing at all.

A half-burnt letter is left where the wayward Magi oft prayed and contemplated;

"O' blessed Companions,

Ye have been faithful unto the end. For that, I will give unto thee a crown of life.

The cusp of Adar is upon us and now our time hath come.

Strike the graven word and make them see truth.

I will be with you, always."