"You must be mother miranda. Heard quite a bit about you." [[Mother miranda]]
THIS WASN’T LOS ILUMINADOS…..
She despised such an organization.
That horded such power.
That truly held no love for the people.
Why was this man here. What had Osmund Saddler said before his deserved passing. He was only a man in the end. Who had such a narrow minded view. Such little ambition a well. World domination? Her daughter was right, those man things, were all the same. They only thought with one thing and it was not there heads. Osmund Saddler in death, had at least shown her, that it was better, to remain in the darkness. To remain within her own lands. To keep the secrets that had been bestowed upon her, just that. A secret and nothing more. The world has changed greatly. She didn’t know it and cared little about it. This was her world here. This village. These people. She was there mother. There leader. There savior. She was there whole entire world. She had so much love to give. So much yearning for a child that she could not have. She would not be cruel like Saddler, like Simmons, like Spencer. She would not be like them. She would be better, for the black church she had founded. Was not a cult. Was not an organization. It was paradise. It was eternity. It was a way, to to give yourself over to a mothers love, one who would take your body and soul, rid it of illness, of rot, of pain and suffering, and grant you eternal life, so that you can serve the black god.
“Did my son, hire you to kill me. Boys. A mothers burden at time, but boys will be boys, playing with there little toys, always trying to rebel and lash out and the only person, who ever loved them.”
She paid no attention to the man. She knew who he was, his reputation. Even cut off from the world, she still had contacts. Her hand was always there, even when it could not be seen. All of this mans masters, had at one point, sought her out. For her wisdom, for her teachings, for her blessings and gifts. She remained at the alter, looking down at him, through the golden hues of her mask as she was interested. In how he would achieve the task. How much did her son tell him. How many people has this little one killed in his life. Who were they she wondered, what did there blood taste like? What memories had been wasted, with him spilling there blood on foreign soil and not here, for her. How could a man, ever hope to stand before a god and hope to even draw blood.
“You have come such a long way, to gain nothing. You may try if you wish, I will not resist your attempts. I believe my son, has merely sent you to your death.”
