Chapter Three: The Observer
“Now, light of abandonment, observe from your sequence of truth. Rise with aggression. You can hear the sound of two hands when they clap together, now show me the sound of one hand. Touch with one hand the razor and touch with another hand the violence to nock the razor.”
Pfevet found himself unshackled and in a dark place, knelt down at the base of a set of stone stairs. Before him, lay the remnants of an old altar with a brazier either side which brought light to the bare stone wall that backs the unholy sanctum. The chamber that surrounds he and the altar maintains a fog of darkness, as if its purpose were to hide this place from the outside world. For not even a glimpse of that world is to be seen in here. The windless air carries a cold that has chills sent down his spine. The ambience of the place reeks of a decaying must, a scent akin to any ancient abandoned hollow.
An attempt to stand was met with success, and so he stood tall at the foot of the altar before taking a final deep breath. He then took his first step. Then another. He repeated the moves like this until his motion was known to him. The closer he approached, the deeper the truth radiated from the braziers. They seemed to represent an argument stuck in duality, as the two forces would pose opposition indistinguishably from one another.
“As you call me by name, I too will call you by name and release the mystery of your darkness with light of abandonment, Daedra-nymics. See to it that your lies melt down these stone walls and reveal the truth like a rain of tears I force you into conjuring.” Pfevet declared toward the duality of fire pits. Truth took root.
“Now, walking atonement, observe from your sequence of truth. Rise with relentlessness. Transcend all sounds, so to not run through the traitorous nymic-path. Know with one hand the razor and know with another hand the violence to nock the razor.”
Pfevet answered this by stamping his feet to the ground upon his last step. He stands fixed upon the epicenter of the altar. Observed from above, the damaged man and the blazing pits frame an exquisite model of a triangle. He reaches his arms across the void. His left hand stretches toward the force to the left, and his right hand toward the force to the right. Truth took root.
“Now, Muse of Blood, observe from your sequence of truth. Crawl apart from the womb of the skin of the world. Leave the paradise that is your own mother. Cruelly mock Arkay’s rhythm of life and death. See with one hand the razor and see with another hand the violence to nock the razor.”
Pfevet offers his final answer with an attempt to make order of the chaos, with outstretched arms, he assigns meaning to neither individually, but both forces at once. In majestic motion, his hands brush into the fires like a masterfully skilled painter dipping into new hues for his succeeding art piece of deep imagery. As his left hand mantled into the fire to the left and his right hand into the fire to the right, the tones of crumbling stone ring far and near amongst the shrine place. At the fore of the altar, comes a horrific screech potent enough to deafen a listener, and sharp enough to slice the physical ears from a listener. A passing stillness comes and goes. In abrupt nature, the fires before him, and he too, flickered. Truth took root.
Atel Enters The Realm
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