Monday, October 04, 2010

Ignis Part 1

Ignis Part 1:
By: James Dubeau

Who am I? Utter another word to me boy and I will send you to meet the spirits. All that you need to know is that the stories are true. I am a desert devil. I am death incarnate. Now leave me be before my wrath is invoked. Stow that tongue of yours before I drag you to the searing lands deep in the southern desert for the vultures to rip you asunder.

Do your ears not work boy? Can you not see that I am the very essence of the darkest recesses in your worst nightmares? My coal black eyes will devour your soul as my sharp teeth feast upon your flesh. Your blood will spill over my lips and nourish my crimson skin. These horns and tail are only a symbol of the infernal rage that burns deep within my being, a rage that you do not want to see.

Maska demands to know why you risk certain death. Why do you continue to ask foolish questions?

Oh no, I am not Maska. He is one of the many spirits swirling around you. When I twirl my carved wooden staff you will hear his wail. Can you hear him sing? He commands you to speak, to tell why you want to know who I am. Only a suitable answer will do or he will eat your still beating heart out of your chest.

So it is your friends that have put you up to asking about me. Maska is pleased, and so am I. Your boldness will serve you well. Would you like to see my spirit friend? His visage is not for the faint of heart. Do you see the great lizard sprit Maska? His translucent black body shimmers in the sunlight. He is just as demonic as I. That you can see from his spines, horns, and teeth.

Who am I? My name is Ignis, but a name only scratches the surface of who I am. There are many words that one can use to describe me: vile, vicious, harsh, ruthless, selfish, wise, intelligent, cursed, jaded, demonic, freed slave, shaman, healer, leader, and noble. I am as many different things as there are grains of sand in the desert. When the mood strikes me I’ll cup a precious cactus flower in my hands letting its soft beauty play out amongst my harsh skin. Other times a flick of my wrist will burn the same flower to a cinder just so that I may watch it be reduced to ash in my hands.

The day grows hot. Sit down and have a drink. There is much more I have to share.

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