Face of the World
We cut open a cowering dukeson once and saw a vile worm slither out; many fathoms in length. This thing was gold and purple and smooth like a snake, not ribbed like an earthworm. It filled every inch of the nobleman so that under his skin there was no flesh or bone, only worm. We put an ax to one end; head or tail they both looked the same. Blue blood gushed out with such force that it stained our clothes and skin. Immediately, we could smell its repulsive odor: gold and perfume and perhaps sandalwood; the smell of opulence.
The royal parasite is the gilded beast that keeps the ruling class in its grasp. From knight to emperor, all are host to this menace. Others had to learn of the truth, we had to wake up. The blue-blooded noblefolk were no more than common vermin feasting on our sweat and blood. They all had to perish. We cut open many more noble men and women and butchered all the royal parasites we could find.
Bowels of the World
Some caves and ancient wine cellars reach impossibly deep. We entered such a hole once, driven by curiosity. We were down there for a week. The air grew hotter and damper the lower we got. We heard the rumbling of the earthen guts. After a while, the walls appeared warped in the torchlight. Once we’d been descending for days, it was undeniable. Under the surface, our world was still alive. Alive in the same messy way we are alive. Even in the darkness, we could feel its fleshy contractions.
A great empire thrived on the surface once. From the crumbling monuments that litter the land, we reconstructed a terrible account of the past. A star, envious of the wealth of the earth, came down from heaven. The impact petrified the supple surface, sending the survivors to the bowels of the world. Down there, we met these miserable creatures. Blind, anemic, elongated; adapted to their underworld abode. So similar to the parasites above, yet infinitely more pathetic.
Dreams of the World
It wasn’t just me; we’ve all seen it. The world, as we know it, changed forever. A terrible rock fell in that nightmare, killing most, burying the rest. Water spilled forth from its broken corpse, flooding the world. Then came a race unheard of before with skin glass-like and appendages many. They stuck their faces out of the ocean and basked innocent in the daylight radiance. They lived carefree, unaware of us, of what came before. And we lived, terribly aware, plotting in our cramped caves. Displaced, replaced, forgotten. Ashamed to show ourselves, lest we frighten these beautiful usurpers.
For some while after, we were all under the spell of this envisioned doom. It was impossible to judge how real the threat was: which star would fall on our heads and when. Working, eating, even thinking about anything else; it all seemed pointless. What is the purpose of building a legacy that will all be crushed one day?