In response to the Photo-Fiction Challenge # 7
Marfessa sat among the cathedrals of the Worshiper’s isle. Just one of many of this worlds floating landmasses. No one remembered at time when the land was one piece, nobody knew when the land had fractured.
Stories were told of an event so horrific that it was refereed to only in whisper. Of leviathans lurking with mighty breaths of fire, awe inspiring creatures covered in metal skins, that spit shells that would shake the world, making ash of whatever got in their way.
It was said that these creatures were the servants and that the masters were as black heart-ed as the the creatures were terrible. It was at their behest that the world had been fractured. It was said that these masters had warred with each other, fought clan against clan, city against city, brother against brother, and that it was the force of their hate that had in the end given the final passionate battle cry that ended them.
No one of their kind remembered the world before the breaking, Marfessa had once been told that it was that event that had bought their kind into being. That they had been a by-product of the destruction and the strange residual magic, this nuclear alchemy that had driven the old ones to the skies.
Those who ruled here now, were the sons of the sons of the sons sons of the ancestors, the masters of old, and in her heart Marfessa knew the truth, the stories were true. She knew it every time she sensed Keenan’s soul stir in conflict, felt his terrible enjoyment when he killed one of the old religion. The war tribes that wanted to rule the fracture. The ones he was commissioned to hunt, to thwart. Lest they destroy even the bits that were left.
Boy that was close.