Post by Omega on Oct 11, 2022 20:40:17 GMT
There is a saying,
“To every dungeon, a denizen,
To every cave, a chote’ath.”
Sequestered beneath the basalt basilica sits the bashful bishop of briars,
Bin the god of secrets,
Bereft of company, spare stygian, cyan, bald swans,
And the coughing boreal sangria fireflies,
His crown is like a great and violet dragonfruit,
Or a bishop’s mitre,
Mayhap a firefly’s organ.
In times of in yesteryears,
He wore mortal form,
Donning a black robe,
To hide his slender build,
His face was green as moss,
With eyes like blue as frost,
His fingers shortened but remained unchanged,
His mitre remained,
He spoke with mortals and taught them as he could,
A night of weakness, a touch of whiskey,
A beautiful devotee of Dau’lush,
He harmed her with more than just his body,
Bin harmed her with what he knew,
So it was that day that the seed of Doubt was planted in virgin soil,
These days, he stays as a god,
His face became like that of a potoo,
His robe as feathers likened after the same,
His is eyes bleak and blackened, unfocused but wide as moon or sun,
He became fat and indifferent to his skin,
Those fingers became whips of barbed wire and briar,
Bin, burdened by what he did and knew, became fat,
He could no longer trust himself,
So, Secrecy secluded himself to being the confidant of Dau’lush,
Bin’s only escape was taking care of his swans,
He loved each of them as though they were the child he could never bring himself to see,
Over the thousands of years, he would spoil them,
But Bin soon learned he could not be overly eager,
If he were to give a swan too much bread,
Their stomach would burst,
If he were to stroke them too much,
They would bleed out.
The solution was learned with time,
Start feeding them slowly,
Let their stomachs widen,
Pet them gently at first,
Let their calluses grow,
And with each generation,
A stronger one hatched to replace it,
Alas, that Bin could never bring himself to trust in himself,
By not acting, he was acting,
And letting the charade of the World continue,
He was not right to carry the message into the world,
The bishop took a stone in his long many knuckled fingers,
Lifting it into his palm,
Sighing and knowing that it was time the truth was heard,
Even if Truth would not believe it,
In his other hand, he gripped a chisel, shaking,
Writing his message and trying his best not to vomit,
Finishing and sighing that his purpose was met,
Anything else after was not his concern,
He gripped the stone and thrust it into the corners of the basalt cave he never ventured,
Bin, bishop of briars, god of secrets was freed,
He was at peace and could sleep that night, for what he knew would no longer be a secret,
The stone reads:
“Dau’lush is not God; he is a mad artist given marble.
He is neither the one who commissions nor the quarryman.”
“To every dungeon, a denizen,
To every cave, a chote’ath.”
Sequestered beneath the basalt basilica sits the bashful bishop of briars,
Bin the god of secrets,
Bereft of company, spare stygian, cyan, bald swans,
And the coughing boreal sangria fireflies,
His crown is like a great and violet dragonfruit,
Or a bishop’s mitre,
Mayhap a firefly’s organ.
In times of in yesteryears,
He wore mortal form,
Donning a black robe,
To hide his slender build,
His face was green as moss,
With eyes like blue as frost,
His fingers shortened but remained unchanged,
His mitre remained,
He spoke with mortals and taught them as he could,
A night of weakness, a touch of whiskey,
A beautiful devotee of Dau’lush,
He harmed her with more than just his body,
Bin harmed her with what he knew,
So it was that day that the seed of Doubt was planted in virgin soil,
These days, he stays as a god,
His face became like that of a potoo,
His robe as feathers likened after the same,
His is eyes bleak and blackened, unfocused but wide as moon or sun,
He became fat and indifferent to his skin,
Those fingers became whips of barbed wire and briar,
Bin, burdened by what he did and knew, became fat,
He could no longer trust himself,
So, Secrecy secluded himself to being the confidant of Dau’lush,
Bin’s only escape was taking care of his swans,
He loved each of them as though they were the child he could never bring himself to see,
Over the thousands of years, he would spoil them,
But Bin soon learned he could not be overly eager,
If he were to give a swan too much bread,
Their stomach would burst,
If he were to stroke them too much,
They would bleed out.
The solution was learned with time,
Start feeding them slowly,
Let their stomachs widen,
Pet them gently at first,
Let their calluses grow,
And with each generation,
A stronger one hatched to replace it,
Alas, that Bin could never bring himself to trust in himself,
By not acting, he was acting,
And letting the charade of the World continue,
He was not right to carry the message into the world,
The bishop took a stone in his long many knuckled fingers,
Lifting it into his palm,
Sighing and knowing that it was time the truth was heard,
Even if Truth would not believe it,
In his other hand, he gripped a chisel, shaking,
Writing his message and trying his best not to vomit,
Finishing and sighing that his purpose was met,
Anything else after was not his concern,
He gripped the stone and thrust it into the corners of the basalt cave he never ventured,
Bin, bishop of briars, god of secrets was freed,
He was at peace and could sleep that night, for what he knew would no longer be a secret,
The stone reads:
“Dau’lush is not God; he is a mad artist given marble.
He is neither the one who commissions nor the quarryman.”
