Community—planned by a single individual for the prospect of union—whichever desire it may be. By all means, the dancing mannequins form wonderfully to the rhythm in the display of surreal sights and grinding cacophony—the lights, tinted in beige, shining upon their tarnished designs. The audience witnessing the display is compelled as it mortifies them—their friends and family, men, women, and Gramnorians alike, are taxidermied for their short relief in entertainment—only a few whimpered, as many remain enthralled. Especially in the sight of Hettalies in her human form, dressed ever so gracefully in black—like a fine sword, rigid in its shape—certainly had embraced the impaling of flesh.
When her lips opened, she sang proudly, with a graceful tune. Her words are strained as they shivered. She perfected. To describe her words visually, one must accept the unknown and be prepared for its possible outcomes—and embrace the darkness, if only for a moment, and in that moment does it reveal an individual true intentions. They hide a devious smile, a lustful wonder, and the curse of their mundane obligations. As for morality, it’s a forgotten value, labeled indefinitely as ‘esoteric.’ Considering there are no prying eyes, public perception is important. Hettalies knows this fact very well.
Outside the opera, the calling for change begins with the simple words of an elderly man standing in front of a statue of the phantom prince. His robes resemble a Phader’s attire—with the two golden ropes tied into a bow, one on both sides. The symbol on his chest became a new addition, representing Sleeper and his ring. He spoke proudly, well-adept in the charismatic arts:
“Don’t all of you see the horror that surrounds—the chaos that stems from the greedy crone that rules us all! Our ancestors followed her words of true freedom—returning once more to permanent conformity. Is it not hypocritical? Is it not concerning that our only substance is from the essence of your neighbor?”
A man asked: “What do you suppose we feed ourselves with? The traditions of the old can no longer be afforded. We have to give our empress everything for the betterment of all.”
The woman added: “Our ancestors have done unspeakable things during the times of true freedom!”
The preacher replied, “No—what I am here to say—to ask: What if we could lower our production and reduce the empress and her son of their obsessive needs? Are there no alternate ways to sustain ourselves? We are starving, deprived of our vigor… There is a way—a way our lord Sleeper has intended.
As he continued his speech, his audience members alerted the nearby authorities of his unregulated dialogue. When they joined in attendance, no mercy was given to the old man, and the final blow of a slow, agonizing death. The citizens watched this demonstration of slaughter out of spite rather than pity.
The man told the woman: “It's people like him that bring chaos, an imbecile, and nothing more.”
“Your words are true,” replied the guard, “These types are why our empress demands more from us. We need your essence to remain vigilant, to keep the peace and these gutter trash away from our sight.”
She chirped: “We thank you for your service!”
In the darkness, behind the rustic pipes and steel limbs, Karthuras watches from the shadows as he thinks:
How unfortunate… I spent a month preparing him for this moment. But they remain in absolute loyalty—even when their fellow man is slaughtered before them.
He transverses deeper into the chasm, underneath the rumbling of machines, eventually stopping at an intersection where the choir emits in echo. His fingers wrapped around a leather mask, staring at its familiar design—a replication of the same one his departed friend Krill had worn during Horton’s medical dismemberment. The leather binds the silver ring in front of the face in a perfect circle, and the surface is crossly patterned to allow the wearer to see it somewhat obtusely. Placing it over his corpse-like face, he hides beneath his black mantle.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
He turned towards the left path, pacing himself until he reached the underground sanctuary. His people cheer like dogs for their master. And like malnourished beasts, they presented themselves before him:
“Sleeper! Sleeper!” they begged for his attention.
He replied: “Do not fret, my children—I am here now—willing to listen to your woes…”
From his words, they spoke individually of their concerns regarding their families, not convinced of joining their prayers of worship, asking for forgiveness so that Sleeper may show them mercy.
He laughed in response: “In time, my children. Everyone will accept my love—you must allow the consequences of their misdeeds to be seen; only then will they join us.”
The unfortunate comes plenty as the Empress’s needs become more persistent, dumbfounded by the notions of sorrow, and will give in to labor demands, thus preferring the mundane rotation. Within these circumstances comes the ray of hope—hope belonging to abstraction. Molly learned many things from Karthuras and was able to convince their involvement, and this leads to the machines' slow, decaying components reeking hideously of excrement—death a question of condition. The workers who maintain these parts are oblivious; out of anger, tool in hand, they strike the lively components until they are given a proper reaction.
Unknown to these men, the parts are influenced by the Phader’s conjuration. Instead, he was not wasteful and would experiment with their remains to produce a particular life that could alter the air quality. He could not see the inner makings this flesh provided, a developing organism of remarkable terror—the workers picked at this growth, not aware of its lasting effects.
#
The months continue as the prideful Phader Molly commences her strategy of degeneracy. The memory of her embrace immediately marks the desperation of certain men who chose her widely shared bosom. Those who choose to ignore are ensnared with doubt, a fantasy that leads only one to wonder—of course, burdened by the dreams of pessimism—yearning inside the dark room, forever questioning. The desperation grows within their minds. Similarly, women share a fate of the natural disorder. They are willing to commence the horrors of labor, allowing the persistent flow of their essence in isolation from men. A new sense of being comes into play by the whims of inner desire. Of the eyes—the curious eyes that men hold. Therefore, they leave their post to roam the streets in lewd attire to attract such attention. Sanctity is well-forsaken—freely chosen. The children that spawn from these acts of indulgence are burdened with the sins of their mother and father alike. Without structure or reason, they indulge in this practice or become incarcerated, forced into the dreaded cycle of labor without much compensation for their efforts.
The nature of humanity choosing solitude will only invoke a terrible cost for the empress—the phantom prince was well aware of this quandary, and with his observations comes the severing of the mortal spirit from its husk then into the mouth known as ‘Sleeper’s ring.’ The blood supply is indeed refilled! Moreover, a burden plagues the days of labor, becoming an enclosed space of a harrowing degree.
The years go by, and the children grow—not in ambition, but in willingness to serve the capital—instead choosing quick relief that life brings, such as fermentation of their neighbor's essence. Factually, it’s the cause of the decrease in population.
Women become more lewd, distracting the men from their tasks, who are profoundly unaware of these mannerisms and do not notice the increase of disease plaguing the streets. The adults are lively as of now, but the young are well infected, increasing the death toll. Molly is not reserved from the bio abomination, thus lying dead in a room with many sickly men who are naked, defiled on themselves and everyone else inside.
The guardsmen were ordered to commence a quarantine among the unstable populace, significantly affecting the conditions of the community. They are all infected—in time, gripped by the crawling fingers from death’s cold hands.
These machines of endless shapes intertwined with the buildings and decaying pipes that leak a black resin are the source of this infection, rendering the many production lines useless.
Karthuras takes a deep breath of the rotting air—succumbing to the crimson fog as the artificial lights surround him. A single guardsman collapses in a puddle of his blood before The Phader. Another did reveal himself, this time—not shaken by the crawling of this disease? He approaches this individual, saying:
“The sins of this community are well presented. Your empress's decrees had left you all in this calamity… But you will survive this decay.”
He bows before Karthuras, gazing at the uncanny mask, replying: “I don’t wish for any of this! Why—why would I be spared from this cruelty? To live in sufferance?”
“No…” Karthuras replied, “—in oblivion do you transverse the void, but not forsaken. With me, I can lead you to a greater purpose.” He rests his pale hand against the man’s shoulder. “This is your destiny… to be my chosen, commencing the final act for the capital’s absolution.”
