The Muse of Death

[Water Lily]

[Spread around the Drain and Vallaki is a story written in elegant manuscript, in the trade tongue.]

The Muse of Death

Once, long ago, there was a man enslaved by hedonism. He cared for nothing and no one, drinking deeply from wine and partaking in lavish parties. To say he lived is a gross exaggeration. This man merely existed on the precipice of life, walking through meaningless motions each and every day, from dawn ‘til dusk. He wanted for nothing because he knew of nothing, ignorant of purpose and the world itself.

Another ordinary day in his mundane life, he met a man who would help him break his chains. Now with a guide, he sought purpose. He sought meaning. He sought -change-. Shown all life and death have to offer, the man broke free from his mortal desires to seek spiritual enlightenment and transcend to something greater and beyond our imagining.

This path is not for the faint of heart, however. Beaten within an inch of his life during his training, he was molded through blood and pain into a man of conviction. He was trialed and tested repeatedly as they ensured he was worthy of this higher calling. Bruised and nearly broken, the man came out leagues stronger than when he had arrived, and like his guides, he now sought the Perfect Death.

The taking of a life, be it in cold blood or with ‘justification’ is an act of murder. Many call him assassin, though he is an artist. Each death he takes is unique and intimate as he seeks the knowledge his forebearers could not reach. To know Death intimately, inside and out. To see Death in all His glory and rip his secrets from Him. To -surpass- Him. The man became a painter, each stroke of his brush drawing him closer to creating the true masterpiece to rise above all others.

So great is he, that the land desired him fervently and bathed the artist in blinding mists before bringing him to us. The Core was unknown to him, but that failed to deter him. The man quickly found a place in the deepest shadows, creating a new sanctuary for himself and the undesirables, those detested by the all kissed by the sun, ostracized from their own people due to their looks or where their blood lies.

Years have past and his reputation has grown, though he is finally achieving what he set out to do. All who have been betrayed by life, all who have been beaten and broken by the name, ‘caliban,’ all who run away from the burning stake and those who scream, ‘Witchcraft’ in fear, know that should you seek solace in the deep below, he will stand with you. Embrace the Void and you shall know respite, for the light of the Sun is scorching and unforgiving, blistering in its judgement and hypocritical in its ‘warmth.’

For those that oppose him, dare to face opposite of him on the chessboard, know that your end is nigh. An artist is not born, but created through discipline and skill, and he does not paint with a merciful brush. The shadows will consume you and he shall find the oppressors and give them their due. The Great Reckoning is at hand and a line has been drawn, for the Muse of Death will ascend in a crescendo of blood as the orchestra of defeated screams wail in despair around him. Domenico will achieve apotheosis as our God of Shadow and Death.