12-27-2017, 10:42 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-27-2017, 11:52 PM by King Ghidorah.)
Abandoning the crude sledge on which I'd been so unceremoniously deposited, I ride in the back of the wagon for the rest of the trip, recovering my energies among the cloth bundles and wooden boxes while rainbow sparks of Omnilium rise from my mending body. As I watch the farm-speckled countryside pass me by Chatterly interacts with his minions, riding ahead to engage with a larger party of hooded men which preceeds my 'carriage' and circling back for brief, animated discussions with his two followers.
I feel strangely subdued. Typically, as soon as my lithe, powerful body regained the capacity for such activity I would start busily deconstructing the cargo that surrounds me, but mostly I find that what I want to do right now is think; Things that Mothra said to me, and things that Chatterly said to Mothra are making me question my assessment of certain facets of the situation in Harnburg Valley.
I arrange myself cross-legged between two irregularly-shaped wool sacks with a crate at my back, and my brain begins to march.
What did the Duke's top agent mean when he said that his people were 'trained and equipped to deal with your kind'? I've listened closely to quite a lot of human conversation over the past several months, listened far more carefully than I think even most humans do, and being as familiar as I am with how they communicate I got the strong impression that he wasn't talking about Primes or moths when he said that. I've known for some time that Chatterly didn't entirely trust my motives: that he found me unnerving, and was aware, to a certain extent, of my murderous desires. Only now it occurs to me that he might have a plan to kill me. While I've been gathering every detail and scrap of information I can find on the lives and hopes of the people in this society and the intricate interdependent social pyramid they weave, preparing for the hour of their delectable destruction, have Chatterly and his master the Duke been plotting against that selfsame day?
Given all that I know, it seems practically guaranteed; a special unit within the Duke's forces has been created to destroy or possibly even banish me if I turn against Harnburg, and I'm riding in the back of their supply cart!
As recently as twelve hours ago I would have taken their caution for mere justified futility: no better than the howling of children against the coming of the dark or the flailing of plankton against the tide. I would have looked forward to brushing aside their preparations and doing as I pleased while they gazed on in slack-jawed, awe-struck horror at the ruin of all their works and their own inevitable deaths, gliding toward them on golden wings.
But today I was beaten nearly to death by a daughter of the lepidopteran titans - little more than a cosmic moth.
By. A moth. This must be what 'shame' feels like.
I have to re-think what's possible in this diminished state, in this new, bizarre little universe - And I can't ignore the fact that Chatterly appeared when he did , in a place I never expected him to be.
I obviously haven't given enough attention to the extent of his duties; I need to learn more about what he does when I'm not around, and who else works for him, both for my own safety and to fully appreciate what he contributes to the greater whole. It occurs to me for the first time that besides Cutter and Violent Angus I've never seen nor met another person who works directly for Chatterly until today. I'd thought that his agents operated strictly outside the valley, assumed that locally he just used the guards and his pair of thugs, but there seems to be an entire branch of the Duke's secret service that I've failed to explore, or even notice - and they've been watching me.
The wagon sticks for a moment in the mud before lurching forward. A bird scoots by overhead, its warbling song grating to my ears. I frown, but it has nothing to do with the bumpy ride or the miniscule, irritating life-form.
It hurts me almost physically to admit it, but Chatterly isn't incompetent. He might not even be a fool. If he has a plan to prevent me from bringing sublime ruin to Harnburg and its fiefdom then, in light of the days events, when the time comes I'm going to have to find a way to surprise him with something he doesn't expect.
I've never had to make a plan to overcome resistance before, never required a strategy for anything other than a given instance of the overall destructive aesthetic process: destroy the cities first or break their military, poison the ocean and then choke their atmosphere or simply set everything on fire, see if I can make them destroy themselves with their own weapons in their zeal to stop what couldn't be stopped... Comparatively elegant, dare-I-say artistic strategic considerations.
The habits of five-hundred million years are falling away in this alien existence. I feel as though a cool wind is blowing over my brain, forming a frosty rime of new ideas, new avenues for old aesthetics and new dimensions to the ruinous work which defines me. It's thrilling and nerve-racking, moreso even than the vast vistas of depth and detail that my tiny humanoid body has revealed to me.
Taciturn and engrossed, I mull and plot and reflect while the astral storm within me rumbles and sparks, surging with quiet strength. I ponder the knowledge I've gathered and the problems before me, what I know of Chatterly and what he might know of me; I avoid the question of Mothra all together. The shame (such a thunderous word for such a strange emotion) is still too fresh, and the gap between us still too embarrassingly wide.
Eventually, some time well after dark, Chatterly rides up alongside the wagon, hood raised and lantern in hand, and tells me that I should break off from the party and enter the valley by myself. When I ask him why he says its because we're less than a kilometer from home and I shouldn't be seen entering the valley in company of his men, but I suspect that it has rather more to do with the fact that, several minutes past, I finally put my mind in enough of an order to feel comfortable setting the supplies piled around me on fire.
I feel strangely subdued. Typically, as soon as my lithe, powerful body regained the capacity for such activity I would start busily deconstructing the cargo that surrounds me, but mostly I find that what I want to do right now is think; Things that Mothra said to me, and things that Chatterly said to Mothra are making me question my assessment of certain facets of the situation in Harnburg Valley.
I arrange myself cross-legged between two irregularly-shaped wool sacks with a crate at my back, and my brain begins to march.
What did the Duke's top agent mean when he said that his people were 'trained and equipped to deal with your kind'? I've listened closely to quite a lot of human conversation over the past several months, listened far more carefully than I think even most humans do, and being as familiar as I am with how they communicate I got the strong impression that he wasn't talking about Primes or moths when he said that. I've known for some time that Chatterly didn't entirely trust my motives: that he found me unnerving, and was aware, to a certain extent, of my murderous desires. Only now it occurs to me that he might have a plan to kill me. While I've been gathering every detail and scrap of information I can find on the lives and hopes of the people in this society and the intricate interdependent social pyramid they weave, preparing for the hour of their delectable destruction, have Chatterly and his master the Duke been plotting against that selfsame day?
Given all that I know, it seems practically guaranteed; a special unit within the Duke's forces has been created to destroy or possibly even banish me if I turn against Harnburg, and I'm riding in the back of their supply cart!
As recently as twelve hours ago I would have taken their caution for mere justified futility: no better than the howling of children against the coming of the dark or the flailing of plankton against the tide. I would have looked forward to brushing aside their preparations and doing as I pleased while they gazed on in slack-jawed, awe-struck horror at the ruin of all their works and their own inevitable deaths, gliding toward them on golden wings.
But today I was beaten nearly to death by a daughter of the lepidopteran titans - little more than a cosmic moth.
By. A moth. This must be what 'shame' feels like.
I have to re-think what's possible in this diminished state, in this new, bizarre little universe - And I can't ignore the fact that Chatterly appeared when he did , in a place I never expected him to be.
I obviously haven't given enough attention to the extent of his duties; I need to learn more about what he does when I'm not around, and who else works for him, both for my own safety and to fully appreciate what he contributes to the greater whole. It occurs to me for the first time that besides Cutter and Violent Angus I've never seen nor met another person who works directly for Chatterly until today. I'd thought that his agents operated strictly outside the valley, assumed that locally he just used the guards and his pair of thugs, but there seems to be an entire branch of the Duke's secret service that I've failed to explore, or even notice - and they've been watching me.
The wagon sticks for a moment in the mud before lurching forward. A bird scoots by overhead, its warbling song grating to my ears. I frown, but it has nothing to do with the bumpy ride or the miniscule, irritating life-form.
It hurts me almost physically to admit it, but Chatterly isn't incompetent. He might not even be a fool. If he has a plan to prevent me from bringing sublime ruin to Harnburg and its fiefdom then, in light of the days events, when the time comes I'm going to have to find a way to surprise him with something he doesn't expect.
I've never had to make a plan to overcome resistance before, never required a strategy for anything other than a given instance of the overall destructive aesthetic process: destroy the cities first or break their military, poison the ocean and then choke their atmosphere or simply set everything on fire, see if I can make them destroy themselves with their own weapons in their zeal to stop what couldn't be stopped... Comparatively elegant, dare-I-say artistic strategic considerations.
The habits of five-hundred million years are falling away in this alien existence. I feel as though a cool wind is blowing over my brain, forming a frosty rime of new ideas, new avenues for old aesthetics and new dimensions to the ruinous work which defines me. It's thrilling and nerve-racking, moreso even than the vast vistas of depth and detail that my tiny humanoid body has revealed to me.
Taciturn and engrossed, I mull and plot and reflect while the astral storm within me rumbles and sparks, surging with quiet strength. I ponder the knowledge I've gathered and the problems before me, what I know of Chatterly and what he might know of me; I avoid the question of Mothra all together. The shame (such a thunderous word for such a strange emotion) is still too fresh, and the gap between us still too embarrassingly wide.
Eventually, some time well after dark, Chatterly rides up alongside the wagon, hood raised and lantern in hand, and tells me that I should break off from the party and enter the valley by myself. When I ask him why he says its because we're less than a kilometer from home and I shouldn't be seen entering the valley in company of his men, but I suspect that it has rather more to do with the fact that, several minutes past, I finally put my mind in enough of an order to feel comfortable setting the supplies piled around me on fire.