Many years have come and gone, and through the endless test of time have you been bestowed many titles. Warrior of Light. Godslayer. Coeurlfist, the Fistful, they of the 14th Chakra. There has only ever been one that held weight with you, reminded you of your beginnings, and of the end you pave the way towards through broken bones and gnarled flesh. Fist of Rhalgr.
Many years and come and gone, and through the endless test of time have you earned the right to many glories. To say you break your fast upon primals is but a silly joke to understate the Herculean; to say you have led the charge that broke the iron grasp of the Empire that built their foundations upon the screams and regret of those that came before you is to summarize that which no single soul could dare to infantilize. A lift of your finger shatters earth, sunders wind, rends reality. What should send any soul screaming back into the lifestream does little else than earn a furrow of the brow and a measure of your scorn.
You are that which those that have come before, those that endure in the present, those that shall rise in days to come shall suffer and suffer and suffer so dearly to imitate. To replicate. To those beneath you, those lesser in their faith and conviction and focused fury, the sheep bestow the categorization of demon. Devils of the hand and fist, of light and shadow. You have often wondered what this has made you, they which have risen above all others, who stands alone upon the apex of sublimity, closest to His embrace than any other that has come before or shall ever deign to ascend.
You have had much time to ruminate, for your domain at the peak of sublimity is and shall ever remain ever cold, and ever lonely. You have come to question upon a particular obscenity, and that perhaps, it is the greatest of sins for one of your ilk, for you have come to realize it has been so long since you’ve last felt anything. You wonder if this is the sign, telling above all others, that you have become a god.
Most of all, you wonder if this is the sign, telling above all others, that you have not only matched His sublimity, but surpassed it.
To the Riddle of Earth you gave your answer, and through its Reply did you understand there is no strength in fear of the unknown. And so, you sought salvation through all the pain you could bring into your frail mortal body, and from suffering, you have become a pillar of granite in a canyon of obsidian. You cannot feel the weight of their judgement as they behold you, behold the trophies of pain you plainly show for all to witness. Your skin has thickened too much for that.
To the Riddle of Fire you gave your answer, and through its Reply did you understand there is no tranquility to be found in wrath. And so, you set down the serrated hora and took up the blunted gauntlet, and from suffering, you have become a temple of focused fury, testament to the fable that is dominance through the core, and not the extension; that in your heart shall burn a loving truth to scorch and rage greater than any black magic, than any umbral calamity, than any tide of hellfire.
To the Riddle of Wind you gave your answer, and through its Reply did you understand there is no courage to be gained from stagnation. And so, you flew across stone, sky, and sea, the throes of mortality serving as no shackles for brilliance, and from suffering, you have become as serene and violent as a gentle summer breeze. You’ve come to accept that you, with your agility and aether and endless spirit, cannot run forever, nor can you always run. Wounds can only remain so raw in the advent of your purposeful decision to let them fester, rather than burn with wind.
Through suffering, you have become…perfect. Inhuman. Transcendent.
Have you surpassed His sublimity, Weapon of Light? Do you remain worthy to call yourself Fist of Rhalgr? Or does He remain worthy enough to receive your tribute?
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