❛ lies … no. half-truths, rather. words well-nigh meaningless, often depthless, chiseled by the masses into a false reflection of some altruistic god. ❜ an unclean throat, a sinner’s mouth — adorned with an avid thoughtfulness, almost as if only to masquerade the rough-hewn rancor of a wannabe god uncovered, its chrysanthemum petals plucked. some great, unspeakable evil shrouded underneath a counterfeit solicitude of his eyes for months passed and those to come unravels, crawls out a perjurer’s den : not fragiled, not in the least, perhaps even … stronger in its resolve. destruction is what it seeks, a glorious unmaking. a cataclysm reaching deep as the roots of an ancient tree, reaching its arms throughout the rot-sprawled grounds … destruction, yes, destruction of the impure is what it desires. a repulsive lust. gut-splitting. ❛ indeed, as you may know, it is far form laborious to delude the desperate. they’re all weak creatures. decrepit. in their snarling hunger they flock to whatever takes up the shape of a savior, however malicious their intentions. ❜
with the absent clicking of a heel, he draws near, otherwise for the moment bathing in silence. his thoughts quarrel. between demands for physical departure and an escape through words alone stands he, now inches away from his audience, violet gaze staring point-blank into greyish purple. similar, sorrowfully homely. ( vhenan, was it? there are rats chewing away at that word, now. ) ❛ let’s speak, then, solas. sincerity for sincerity — deceit for deceit. ❜
GOD GORES THE FALSE GOD IN THE NIGHT-WASHED FIELD , LEAVES HIS ENTRAILS AS PROOF OF EXISTENCE : ❛ you are the false prophet that the chantry feared you were. ❜ solas speaks plainly and without surprise, without fear. ❛ . . . but can you blame your followers for believing? their sky has been split open, their leaders ruthlessly killed — is it wrong for these people to reach for a beacon of hope, no matter how . . . misguided? ❜ the desperate cling onto their illusions of change : the same, unanswerable prayers cutting into the corpses of their gods — the gates to their heaven blackened and closed. ❛ one should be wise not to confuse desperation for weakness, herald. ❜ the wolf concludes, his voice the sound of a proverb, but inwardly he wonders — how strong is the inquisition without its inquisitor, without its figurehead, its desperate emblem?
as fyodor draws closer to him, solas remains still, and love intrudes further, its rotten, vile soul pilgrimaging to the sanctity of cruelty. solas softens, and for a moment, the inquisitor seems a stranger — traceless and unimaginable. ❛ i’m afraid i have nothing to offer you. there is no truth for me to tell. ❜ the liar refuses. the lover refuses. i will not be monstrous, even if you are. god gazes upon the false god and sees himself, a mangled rendition. why are you still performing your innocence when you reek of guilt? ❛ — i’m sorry. ❜
