[ There is a moment when Wrathion's supplication burns ash-hot like indignity, like white fever. When he raises his eyes to meet those before him, serpentine and cold, and he does not ask if he is the lesser man for requiring an entreaty of that any creature possessed of nobility would deem natural.
One a flying lizard-like creation, dressed in the skins of a man. The other, precepts summed and schooled to align on a taut string, wrapped in a gentleman's fetters. Who lies, and who shows his nature? They are pictures diffused, no better than smears of charcoal, paints too wet and muddied and bereft of pigment.
When he bows, back a bend of silent, acrid objections and the scars that combine them, he does not remember the start. Only the slow, gentle descent. The culmination. ]
This truth is not my own. [ The knowing, an accident. Its distribution, a cruelty. ] I make no claim to it.
no subject
One a flying lizard-like creation, dressed in the skins of a man. The other, precepts summed and schooled to align on a taut string, wrapped in a gentleman's fetters. Who lies, and who shows his nature? They are pictures diffused, no better than smears of charcoal, paints too wet and muddied and bereft of pigment.
When he bows, back a bend of silent, acrid objections and the scars that combine them, he does not remember the start. Only the slow, gentle descent. The culmination. ]
This truth is not my own. [ The knowing, an accident. Its distribution, a cruelty. ] I make no claim to it.