![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
In a small cafe in a dark corner of the City, a young woman sits, writing by candlelight. Fire catches in her hair, her eyes, and glints sympathy in the empty wineglass resting tiredly beside her. The pages are blotchy and ill-sanded, and her fingers are stained with ink, but still she scribbles on in an ancient secretary hand.
Finishing, she rubs a hand tiredly across one cheek, leaving a black smear, and stands. The shadowy others who inhabit the cafe turn idly, speculating and murmuring into silence. She speaks.
"Once, there was a dream." Her voice falters, and she pauses before continuing.
"Once there was a dream. A dream of outcasts. Once upon a time a group of outsiders came together in their isolation, and in so doing created an inside. A circle formed, vast and far-reaching, and within this circle physical havens came to be. These households were the manifestations of the circle in the real world, and for many years they provided sanctuary and friendship in good times and bad, for those who passed through them. They were a gate into another world, and as such, much celebrated.
"But the times changed. The outsiders became so thoroughly entrenched in their inside that they created a microcosm, where within the circle of insiders, there too were outsiders. The havens, robbed of the feeling that created them began to wither and die. One by one they closed their doors in silence and mourning, their once bright halls now dimmed in their return to the world outside the circle.
"And in this sinking twilight, one of the last great havens was corrupted, it's once bright ideals put to use in the pursuit of earthly lusts and selfish pleasures. As this became so, the very fabric of the household began to putrefy, and so fell the great house."
Softly she adds, “I know, for I was there.”
The woman stands unsteadily now, her voice caught in her throat. She looks down, closing her notebook slowly, and when she looks back up, her eyes are steel, devoid of that rich sentiment. Her tone is strident, hiding a quiet resolve that burns in the backs of prophet's eyes.
"I am the firebrand. I am the bringer of Endings. As all things begin, so must they end, and thus my place in this world is assured."
"I am the firebrand. I am the destroyer of putrefaction, I am the searing flame that reaches into dark corners where slimy creeping things lie, and I am the blade that rends the weaving of stagnant patterns."
"I am the firebrand. I am the agent of the measures required, that things fallen into darkness may not prevail. I am the conduit and vessel of God's will."
Her voice breaks, and she delivers one last proclamation before sitting, like a broken doll, and staring blindly at her notebook.
"I am the Vessel of Flame, and now I am empty."
Finishing, she rubs a hand tiredly across one cheek, leaving a black smear, and stands. The shadowy others who inhabit the cafe turn idly, speculating and murmuring into silence. She speaks.
"Once, there was a dream." Her voice falters, and she pauses before continuing.
"Once there was a dream. A dream of outcasts. Once upon a time a group of outsiders came together in their isolation, and in so doing created an inside. A circle formed, vast and far-reaching, and within this circle physical havens came to be. These households were the manifestations of the circle in the real world, and for many years they provided sanctuary and friendship in good times and bad, for those who passed through them. They were a gate into another world, and as such, much celebrated.
"But the times changed. The outsiders became so thoroughly entrenched in their inside that they created a microcosm, where within the circle of insiders, there too were outsiders. The havens, robbed of the feeling that created them began to wither and die. One by one they closed their doors in silence and mourning, their once bright halls now dimmed in their return to the world outside the circle.
"And in this sinking twilight, one of the last great havens was corrupted, it's once bright ideals put to use in the pursuit of earthly lusts and selfish pleasures. As this became so, the very fabric of the household began to putrefy, and so fell the great house."
Softly she adds, “I know, for I was there.”
The woman stands unsteadily now, her voice caught in her throat. She looks down, closing her notebook slowly, and when she looks back up, her eyes are steel, devoid of that rich sentiment. Her tone is strident, hiding a quiet resolve that burns in the backs of prophet's eyes.
"I am the firebrand. I am the bringer of Endings. As all things begin, so must they end, and thus my place in this world is assured."
"I am the firebrand. I am the destroyer of putrefaction, I am the searing flame that reaches into dark corners where slimy creeping things lie, and I am the blade that rends the weaving of stagnant patterns."
"I am the firebrand. I am the agent of the measures required, that things fallen into darkness may not prevail. I am the conduit and vessel of God's will."
Her voice breaks, and she delivers one last proclamation before sitting, like a broken doll, and staring blindly at her notebook.
"I am the Vessel of Flame, and now I am empty."
