Hope from the Blue

[cRaZy8or5e]

A lone shadow stands before an altar, motionless except for the soft rise and fall of shoulders and chest as the man breathes. Behind the altar tall effigies of the Gods he worships cast looming shadows. One central figure, the maimed God, Tyr, stands above the others, pointing an accusing finger at the center of the altar where sit the scales of justice. The scales are hugely out of balance, reflecting the state of the world. The normally serene countenance of all the Gods, are twisted with displeasure, the stone magically reflecting the true feelings of those they represent. Even the normally serene and benign countenance of Ilmater seems distressed. Torm’s face is terrible to behold, even for the shadowy figure standing before it, despite his station as a believer and last guardian of this sanctum.

The shadow briefly tugs at his cassock and surplus, aligning them to assure the balance of his uniform so as to reflect the balance of his mind and his resolve. He turns to his attendents, the flickering light of the candles dancing across his humble features. He is the last guardian of this inner sanctum of the Fists of the North, chosen for this awesome task for his humility. The Shamed one, or simply “Shamed” had no name to mark who he was or where he comes from, only this moniker that serves to remind him to remain humble despite all the blessings that the Gods of the North heap on him.

“For too long has the North remained silent despite the evil that besieges Aetheria.” With a whisper Shamed shatters the silence. He motions Norbert forward who is serving as acolyte at these proceedings.

The whisper grows to a harsh hiss, “For too long have the Fists of the North stood by while others suffer.”

Raising his voice he speaks again the words punctuated with bitterness, almost forcing them out of his mouth like bile, “For too long have we quested in other realms, and forgotten our duties here.” Taking a small book from Norbert he casts it onto the scale on the altar and with a flick of his hand lights it with holy flame.

Behind him Fozzy pounds on a large dragon hide drum and Fezsick plucks a dissonant chord on a harp over and over, in time to the beat of the drum.

As the flames consume the book Shamed tilts his head back crying out, “THE BOOK OF THE JUST BURNS SO THAT ACROSS THE DIMENSIONS OF THE MULTIVERSE THE JUST MAY ALSO BURN!!! SO THAT THEY MAY FEEL THE BEAT OF THE DRUM OF DOOM!!! SO THEY MAY HEAR THE CHAOS HARP!!! DARKNESS IS UPON US!!!! ANSWER THIS SUMMONS TO DUTY!!!! RETURN HEROES OF THE NORTH!!!!”

Fozzy and Fezsick beat in time, increasing their rythmn and force as Shamed shouts this final plea. At the final cry they beat their instruments one final time, the bass of the drum and the chord reverberating around the room, the strings holding the note into the silence.

There is nothing.

They wait in silence, till even the harps chaotic note is gone, the sound broken only by the flicker of the flames. The book of the Just is reduced to a small pile of black ash with one final glowing ember. Those in the room remain focused on that small dying ember. And watch as it too goes out.

Shamed’s shoulders visibly slump as the possibility of their call having failed begins to bear down upon him like an oppressive weight. As if to underscore that fact, a gale like wind blows through the inner sanctum, blowing out ever candle and torch. An evil laugh rides the gale around the room. Shamed raises his eyes to the small pitiful pile of ash on the scale expecting to see that it has been blown away by this evil wind.

Yet the scales seem to remain untouched. In the heart of the pile of ash, a small blue glow, so slight, that Shamed believes he is imagining it at first, begins to grow. Then from the black ash a blue flame flickers, and begins to cast a light that throbs in time with the beat of Shamed’s heart. The evil laughter turns into a howl of rage that races away into the ether.

Voices emanate from the blue flame repeating the same phrase over and over. A phrase that causes unlooked for tears to leap unbidden to Shamed’s eyes. He turns to the other Fists in the room, that simple phrase bouncing around the room, lifting their spirits. Who knew that there could be so much weight, so much power, so much hope behind two simple words. The voices build into an almost chaotic crescendo, threatening to drive the Fists in the room mad with the joy that they inspire until they begin to proclaim altogether in time with one another, the blue flame throbbing in time with the voices’ announcement;

“WE COME.”