Gypsy Moths fluttered like musical notes given form, their scaled wings glinting with multi-hued flashes catching the light streaming in from the stained glass windows of the chantry. Their's was a dance of joy and sorrow, an admixture of light and sound, moved to wingbeats by the voices of the singers, adding their own hymnal trilling to the song. Elven voices joined those of man, accented by the soft sub-vocalisation of the monks, whose every movement produced resplendent chimes from the silken robes adorning them. Colour and sound lit the temple in waveforms and particles, splashing like the falls of water spilling from the walls, while the faces of every race angled upwards, mouths moving in unison to create the assonant melody exalting The Dragon.
Seeming to sway to the glorious lamentation vocalised by man, mer and moth, dragon's tongue flowers and dragonthorn pettles glowed under the emerald and ruby gaze of sculptured serpents, marble statues of eternity created by very mortal hands. To the choir it was as though Akatosh slowed for the duration of the song, Himself perhaps caught in the gem-fragrance of memory yet to occur, or ensnared by rapture-notes from the future time where amnesia eats the faces of dreaming ada. A day could become a year in that holiest of sacred spaces, a place once graced by the pure and blessed feet of the Highest Highness, the Paravant.
Swept up by this dream intoned, the congregation for whom the language and words of the song were unknown for it was older than the bones of Nirn, nevertheless had pictures painted in their minds, images of a lofty peak capped by a crown of snow where dragons circled a pristine plateau, roaring with fire-speak.
Knights of the Order of the Hour, red-diamond armour gleaming in the scintillant rays of filtered magicka, heard within the notes of the song Al-Esh's own voice, perhaps captured like the scattered fjyrons of soul repeated in verse by the moths above them. Past and present became as one to the paladins of Auri-El and knights of Akatosh, and they found themselves standing shoulder to shoulder with minotaurs, whose hooves beat a futile rhythm to stamp summer back into the palid vanish of lost myth-echo. Upon the altar above, encircled by the daybreak of aetheric grace, itself an echo of aurbical thunder, Perrif raised a slender hand, holding within her perfect palm a crystal dripping with the blood of shared madness.
And then the singing stopped, the moths flew back to the faces and necks of the monks, while the men and mer of the choir blinked their eyes, adjusting to the silver and red light of the newly risen flesh-divinity of Shezarr whose presence changed the ambience of the now-quiet chantry. The Time Dragon resumed his flight, leaving in His wake a tranquility and sadness only normally sensed within the depths of a shattered gem, a hollow emptiness where once divinity lay, and the dream once glorious ended with just a sigh, unheard by apathy.
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It's also given me an idea, what with the moths...
Sorry it took so long but I had other blogs to catch up on. I didn't want to leave other members work and jump to this without going through their pieces... more
It's also given me an idea, what with the moths...
Sorry it took so long but I had other blogs to catch up on. I didn't want to leave other members work and jump to this without going through their pieces first.
Meanwhile Paws, I noticed you haven't signed up for NaNo despite posting a blog in July.
Come on Paws, come and join in with us...
more