Faceless Gold

Home Firmament's Eye

Staring. Blind eyes, bereft of life, thieved of blood and essence.

The knights of the march array curious and wary through the ash of the burned steppe.
Windblown, dunes like sand, motes of dust pulled this way and that by the wind, before falling still.
There are no foes to be found, though mere nights before there were.

The sky is dim. Cracks upon the firmament are faintly visible above, motes of glass pulled to earth by ordered invocation, before falling still.

~

"Is this... thing... of the traitors' creation?"
The master of the march gingerly touches the featureless gold of the statue.
Juxtaposed against the cooling embers of the dusk, the brilliant sheen of the metal stands monolithic and unchanging, harsh in comparison to the gentle, dying wind.

Scholarly eyes pierce the layers of half-envisioned, half-understood meaning, searching for a connection that one knows must be there.

"This is a remnant of the army, yes.
A failed ritual."
The fingers drop from the surface, listless gaze falling on it with an ancient, calculating hate.
The profane effigy does not respond. Its presence hungers like a deep void in the atmosphere between the knights, gnawing at their resolve, feeding on their disquiet.

"Destroy it."
The words, spat into the air, settle into the dust as the knights draw blades in practiced, mechanical movements, their focus aligning upon the interloper.

With a flash of glinting starlight, they strike as one.

.

.

.

.
~

The profane effigy responds.
Motes of dust pulled this way and that by sweeping winds settle upon freshly spilled blood,
and then,
all is still again.

The Dragon hungers.

~