Shadow And Flesh
| Shadow And Flesh | |
|---|---|
| Date of Cutscene: | 06 January 2013 |
| Location: | Cleyra |
| Synopsis: | The Burmecians are made an offer that they can't refuse by a dark figure; is their salvation at hand? |
| Cast of Characters: | Garland, Burmecians |
Cleyra.
Inside the massive sandstorm that keeps enemy forces at bay, it is a beautiful place; a settlement attached to a tree, one larger and more beautiful than those of the more mundane worlds could imagine. Its branches stretch across the sky, supporting the homes of the Cleyran people as though they were one with its natural form; those homes have now taken on new guests, distant cousins called the Burmecians. Once, long ago, the Cleyrans and the Burmecians were one; now, disgusted by violence, the Cleyrans have distanced themselves from the Burmecians, practicing a peaceful, pacifistic life. Still, peaceful and good does not mean idle - with the Alexandrian violence reaching new heights, the Cleyrans took the Burmecians into their home once more, hiding them from the ferocious Alexandrian military as best they could. Now, Burmecians and Cleyrans alike suffer; the weight of the refugees upon both peoples is great, and the fear of Alexandria - not to mention the violence of the new world at large, and the Heartless alike - has many shaking in fear.
The man who steps through the cyclone is old, endlessly old, eternally old. His beard hangs low at his stomach; hair white with age dangles from his balding scalp, the impression of a great and learned man immediately evident in the lines of his face. And, of course, the ominous whirr of gears is barely audible over the sound of the roaring cyclone as he strides into the tree, making his way up its branches as though he knew it intimately. Several Cleyrans along the way stop and stare; they have not seen a human in these parts come peacefully in some time, but this old man in his old black robes seems no more than a harmless scholar, perhaps on pilgrimage from some far-off land. They let him pass unmolested; this is a mistake.
The Old Man stops at the edge of a clearing. Burmecian refugees - immediately identifiable by the sorry state of their clothes, by the ragged poorness that pervades the crowd, by the desperate and hungry looks in their eyes. The Old Man's eyes click, scanning the crowd curiously as he begins listening to the Cleyran speaker on the elevated stand.
"...his wisdom, God has granted us sanctuary. In his wisdom, he has granted you peace; it is a peace bought in blood and suffering, but the darkness will pass! God's love will shine down upon you once again. Put aside your sorrows, and rejoice - for you may have been robbed of much, but nothing can rob you of your faith. Nothing can rob you of God's love. So let us pray - let us pray that God will grant us respite from the terrible Alexandrian wrath, and the black and evil Heartless. Let us pray that God will send a miracle. Let us-"
The Cleyran speaker frowns. The Old Man slowly makes his way through the crowd of Burmecians; a murmur follows him, a curious murmur that disrupts their quiet, discontented prayers of desperation. Soon, all eyes are upon the Old Man; the Cleyran speaker shakes his head. "Excuse me, honored sir - this is not a place for you to interrupt. These are holy rituals; if you are curious, you are welcome to listen, but your disruption is most rude, and I am afraid I must ask you to le-"
"Why would you require a miracle, when you can take with your own two hands?" The Old Man inquires. He steps up onto the platform, towering above the Cleyran just as he towered above the Burmecians, easily nearly seven feet in height. The Cleyran looks up at him and bites his lip as the Old Man turns to face the crowd. "People of Lost Burmecia, hear me. I am your salvation. I am your savior. No longer will Alexandria torment you without end, crushing you beneath their heel. No longer will they rage against you for crimes unknown to you; no longer will they be your tormentors, your enslavers, your destroyers. For I am here to offer you the chance to fight back."
The Cleyran priest steps forward. "Now see here! How dare you, sir, come into the sanctified lands of Cleyra and make such violent claims! We are a peaceful people; we are a kind people. We will not tolerate-"
"...how?" A Burmecian in the crowd asks. The Cleyran's eyes widen. No, no...he's losing them. The priest throws out his hands. "G-good people, do not mistake this man for a savior! Violence only begets violence-"
"To live is to give life meaning, yet one must take others' lives to survive." The Old Man replies, silencing the Cleyran priest with a wave of his hand and a look from his face that sends the peaceful rat quailing. "It is a terrible fact of your lives. Your loved ones have been stolen from you, slaughtered; do you not owe it to them to fight back, to prevent this from ever happening again? The Alexandrians will not stop until your species no longer exists. They will not stop until all that is not of them is dead or enslaved. What of the Qu, when they scream and sob as their marshes are destroyed? What of you, as your tree burns under Brahne's fearsome march? Will you stand and continue to preach your pacifistic lies? Or will you make a stand, and band together? The old tales know; the greatest evils are defeated by those willing to stand up and fight when no one else will. Pacifism is cowardice; the Burmecians are brave." The Old Man's gaze sweeps across the crowd as they mumble and murmur; his eyes whir quietly as one of them steps forward, a young Burmecian with eyes full of fire.
"What must we do?"
The Old Man smiles. "I will teach you."
He had them.
Far, far away, in an ancient tower, dark and terrible laughter rings through the halls.
A shiver runs down the Cleyran priest's spine.
He had best report these events to the High Priest...
