Lurid Ruminations - A Question of Faith

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

Might the fool be taught or only tempered?

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

Twilight

It has been twice the black wind howled in the prior two nights.

The first? The betrayer of my *knowing*. The debt was settled.

The second? The Red Wizard that so exquisitely deceived He-Whom-Deceives.

It has been twice that I allowed myself to falter in the prior two nights.

The first? My submission unto the masters of this False Worlds.

From the nescience of my behaviours is born new revelation. Mine is an incorruptible vessel.

The second? The exaltation of my *knowing*.

I may no further weave my predations upon the firmament of obscurity.


The Inquisitor *knows* my voice; he fancies himself clever. A pity he isn't.

There isn't ever a "hero." Only the fool that thinks himself one.

He is only a mechanism through which new found stupidity is given the semblance of rationality.

Yet in one way he wasn't mistaken. I find disgust within his self-aggrandising delusions.

It matters little.

The next movement begins.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

Meditations

blade of ebon night
only to slumber in death
dreams unforgiven

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

The ignorant man may profess in ever greater ignorance that through his obedience, he is bequeathed "truth."

What "truth" might the sycophant which shackles itself himself myopic deference glimpse?

Only that he is a puppet; that in his submission, the mechanism of his liberation was forever stripped away.

Yet what choice was I ever given? Only its illusion; the bitter realisation my *knowing* was forever immaterial.

I have survived the darkness - to play eternal witness to the coin as it was cast.

If the perturbations of my defiance alter history, let it be altered. If the world must die that I be freed, let it die.

If my fate is to perish, then I shall only laugh.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

Legacy

One by one in exquisite monotony they fall; enraptured by the knowledge I have given them.

The first only to refuse this "gift." One whom perished to deify my fallacy.
The second too great an imbecile to fathom it. Blasphemy to be excised.
The third made a pawn before even I might whisper. A madness avenged.
The fourth a fool-would-be-king. A story with its ending come prior to its beginning.

Ad hoc mundi eius morbo filii.

Ego sum ​​propheta. Falsus deus me negabis.

Usstan tlun l' hiever. Nau kenoth yah zhal nauxahuu uns'aa.

Si mi wer doraanar. Thric bahsk ithquent nishka deny ve.

[ Such statements consume the expanse of his writing, scrawled in entropic patterns which radiate outward from its first instance upon the page. ]

"I am the Prophet. No false god will deny me."

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

It is always a choice.

To seek the defiance of one's nature; or its acceptance.

It is in the refutation of the self that alteration is rendered.


If one assigns potency to "good" and "evil" or to other words, it is one's choice.

A capacity to which the men that you've murdered is now forbidden.

That you can't fathom this as the origin of your "evil" is sin.

That you perish ignorant to this reality is condemnation.


Is it a true "evil" to excise a greater rot? Hardly.

Is the "good" man which commits "evil" made this? No.

It is a choice. One which we allow to immutably defines us.

One act cannot wash away the *knowing* of one man's "evil" or another's "good."

This is what you never quite understood.


May you discover catharsis to this enigma in death;

The luxury he was never given. Two men's fates written in the same hovel.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

Tangit animo. Offensionis in ignorantia.

Puer dedit Deus vires.

Tamen a pupa. Quot perdita ad eam?

A ianua aperuit ut magnitudini utroque.

A door once opened may be glimpsed both ways.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

"Infirma operam tantum ad se debilior."

"The weak endeavour only to make themselves weaker."

Is this premise what you desire that I understand?

A just man perishes a noble death.
A weak man perishes an ignoble death.

What right have I to delineate betwixt the just and the weak?

My words might have served to allay the suffering one whom deserved no suffering.

Only now do I fathom the bitter truth of your erudition.

I am not weak by consequence of my designs or through submission to or defiance of "evil."

I am weak because others must *know* anguish to perpetuate my sublime hypocrisy.

May I be forgiven for this transgression? No. May I ensure this man no further suffers? Yes.

One is incapable of refuting their pattern within the tapestry of our game. Yet patterns may be rewritten.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

D'honaire isn't the fool I'd taken him to be. Not entirely.
He tightens the leash, illustrating the ruin of his puppets.

It was my failure to anticipate objectivity. I shan't again.
The "immutable defences" of one's mind crumble before word.
If this one desires to be treated as a child, so I will oblige him.

So utterly frail, a child's *knowing* of the self. I must be careful not to break it.

What of the other? The contention of will and neurosis. Let us see how this play out.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

"V. R. S." That is what Magnus said to me. Or more precisely, "Mageling. V. R. S." What could he possibly mean? And why?

Isn't it grand? The matriculation of blossoming epiphany into the baroque orchestrations of our cage.

It is hardly a heraclean endeavour to decipher the enigma of these letters. Van Richten. Of the fifteen thousand, three hundred, ninety-five permutations resultant from interpolating pertinent materials, I ascertained this to be the only practical derivation. What denies the possibility of a Society?

Invariably, the opportunity to seek admittance into this constituency was blighted by my association with Victor. I may only assume that he succumbed to the predations of the self-indulgent hunter-of-men, George Weathermay. It is truly pitiable that he and his debased brood fester at the core of this "V.R.S."

Yet what retinue of myopic sycophants has this dynasty assembled to enshroud itself? The corruption of Van Richten's work they present musn't be further allowed.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

A strange man having sought stranger artefacts.

This one is unlike the rest. His intelligence may reveal itself an equal to my own.

To any other - the shroud of intrigue he wears - it is the gift condemnation.

Yet not to I. Tamen non ad ego. His fallacy? To blind others utterly to the self is only to distinguish it.

Ego erit verbum transpositis ad Rex. Auctor vae ut se probare clavem.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

Ego per ad Niger Axem. Nunc imperium, ubi antiqua somnia somnos.

Ecce. Omnes fades in nigra profundum nescientia. Nusquam imperium senex Imaskar somnia et studia eius.

Behold. All fades into the black depths of nescience. Gone is the old empire of Imaskar and all the dreams and ambitions of its people.
~Miragul, Dominus Scriniarii of Logic, Reason, and Dreams

I come Rex. *Know* that our paths shall be as one.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

The first act ends as it had begun - with the thought of suffering.

The strange man succumbs to the predations of his flesh; his omniscience cracked; orchestrations laid bare.

Only now are the strings of the prime movers revealed to me. As this precipitates the disintegration of one alliance, others awaken within its ruin.

Those of unlikely origin. The king of nothing, shrouded within the grey walls of his web. The sightless inquisitor, blind to all but his own lament.

The strange man's yet stranger gifts are found to be unwelcome. He persuades my ruse with petty trinkets. It is all which his kind *knows* to do.

Such is an indignation never to be forgiven. The blighted dove is torn from the security of her crumbling prison. The first of many omens of things to come.

The second act begins as it must end - with the thought of absolution.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

IDEolOgical ANalysiS REVEALS DevIANcE.

I WILL NOT BE DEVIANT. tEh LoBOTomY INSUFFICIENT.

MY DELUSIONS ENDURE. SaNiTY FLeeS FRom mY MIND.

I will endure. i WiLL enDUrE. I wiLl EnDure.

ThEY HaVE dOnE THIS TO ME. HATE. MY MIND IS HATE.

thEY deMaND tHAt I HATE. sO I SHALL HATE THEM.

i GiVE aLL tO HIM. ThAT my SUFFerING hAS MeANIng.

[The manic script abruptly ceases.]



My ruminations subside. This reverie broken.

There exist no other questions to be answered.

I am the Prophet. I have foreseen their end.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

There was a great pain with this awakening though one hardly unwelcome after so long a reverie.

I feel.. there is something that needs to be done. Yet, naturally, what it shall be is never of my own design.

My adversaries? Most assuredly dead or beyond my reach. What does it matter when time claims us all?

Perchance it was a thing of fate, this death and rebirth; to liberate me of the shackles which kept me a fool.

The madness, enjoyable as it was, has taken leave of me and now there is only a cruel certainty of my path.

They'll never see it coming; the things crawling in their putrescence below the earth. Not until it's too late.

That imbecile of an Inquisitor couldn't understand.. Neither might any other. There is hardly "good" and even less reliably, "evil."

Merely what men must do -- what I must do -- and how it is their grim machinations play across the board.

I will spare them all what is it come. Whatever the cost to this petty world and the hilarity of its would-be mysteries.