Izobella (4): Illumination

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Izobella meandered with the night atop one of the many jagged ledges in the Inevitable City. Eyes closed, she directed her gaze towards the blossom-point, that space between the brows. She could feel the presence of the entity this world called Tzeentch, the many-faced, many-named presence that erupted in many dimensions–even the one that spawned her.

The city of the flesh vanished and was gradually replaced by the mind’s eye take on the structures. This wasn’t flesh-and-blood reality, and it wasn’t imagination. It was the spiritual reverse of reality, a thing mortals avoided least they face the horrible truth: Mortality is a game, a thing of parts, names, actions. The real world could only be seen eyes shut, not eyes open.

Tzeentch was the grasping center of all phenomena, an action, a coming forth, an eternity. Like a map with no center laid back upon a second map with no center, and so forth to the third, Tzeentch was ever present in all times, all realities, all beings. There was no escape, and thus in essence, she herself was an echo of the great being.

Balance was illusory.

It was an experience built of hegemonies and structures super-imposed upon on angles, circles, squares, things in the flesh that had essence forced upon them by a cosmic song, an unending song that never started and never ended.

The melody gave structure to the map, a vibration, much like how ripples on a pond form for the cause of a stone thrown by an village idiot in order to disturb the chaos of silence. The only difference: Tzeentch’s song never ended and its chords never stopped, its waves non-ending.

In such a manner, the thing that called itself Izobella did not truly exist. Izobella was a minor echo of the song, a small back-eddy, an ox-bow lake mocking the tune of the ever-present Tzeentch, an automaton that thought it was.

“My lady,” her chosen whispered hoarsely from a respectful distance on the ledge.

Regretfully, Izobella opened her eyes, bracing herself for the rush of sensory experience. “Yes?”

Malick the Chosen looked away to clear his vision. What he thought he saw was a cloud of vaporous purple, a shimmering halo of transparent tentacles emanating from his mistress. Perhaps it is she who is the true chosen? 

“Your heralds are entering the city. Their missions have ended. What word would you send to your believers?”

Malick watched with disbelief as the transparent cloud winked out of existence, slinking back into the hidden reality it slithered from. His priestess smiled at him, eyes penetrating him to the bone. “Tell them to meet me at the pyramid. We have much to discuss ere we sleep this night.”

“At once, my lady.” Malick grunted, fist to heart in a salute.

Izobella watched the hulking presence stalk away with purpose.  Malick was so simple. Give him the caress of the strict word and he was yours for life.

There were deeds to do, and plans to construct, Izobella mused as she mounted her disc, bonking it awake with the thud of her staff. And she had not the faintest what those plans would be.

Chaos occurs even as Order forestalls.

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