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srchng4answrs · 4 years ago

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Absolution of sin isn’t easy. Every year in my Catholic high school they would bring in priests to listen to our confessions. We would sit in the auditorium an empty chair in between each person and one by one walk to the back of the auditorium where a man in vestments would sit ready to tell us that we are still God’s children. I never went.

“Before religion” isn’t a concept that exists for me. This is strange for many reasons, the primary being that my family is not religious in the slightest. We went to church out of obligation every Christmas and Easter, and stopped following that tradition when I was in 4th grade. I don't know what my mother thought I would gain from going to a religious school for 10 years.

Catholicism is the particular sect of Christianity that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to reconcile with. The preaching of love and tolerance. The acts of service and the good deeds. Is it still a good deed if you’re doing it for personal gain?

Defender of Mankind. In Ancient Greek that's what the name Alexandria means. That's what My name means. I learned that at church. It’s ironic, the places that tell you you are meant to defend, are the same ones attacking. I wasn’t equipped to defend myself from the teachings of a group that I thought had my best interest at heart.

Eulogies in religious services are often delivered by the clergy member who is officiating the service. A religious eulogy will focus on the role of God and faith in the life of the person who died, rather than any secular accomplishments. I often write eulogies for people in my head. I have never once written something religious.

Father Sean was an odd man. Nothing against him but I wish he would stop sending me friend requests on Facebook.

Gabriel is a Hebrew name meaning “God is my strength”. He told Mary to not be afraid, but he was also the angel sent to destroy Jerusalem. Which one of those is real strength.

Half human, half divine. The manifestation of God in the flesh. How terrible it must’ve been to be crucified for telling the truth. To be needlessly slaughtered for the sake of people that want to see your organs fail as you slowly suffocate and bleed out. Father forgive them they do not know what they are doing.

I often wish I understood. I want to be able to walk into a church and feel god. I want to wear my Kairos cross without feeling like a liar. I don’t think religion was meant for people like me.

Jesus was not white. He didn’t have long flowing hair or a long beard. He was shorter than we think. Is it more disrespectful to put someone on a cross or to purposefully make their physical appearance more palatable for a racist audience.

Kairos may have been the closest I’ve ever been to experiencing god. For three days you sit in small groups and listen to people talk about their most traumatic experiences. Religious retreats are made to break you. To make you flood the earth with your tears. To make you turn to god because there’s no one else to turn to. I wish I could say with any level of certainty that my experience was real.

Love is such a funny idea. God “Loves” you. I still don’t understand the double standard of preaching love and then telling people they love wrong. I think there are bigger sins to worry about.

Matthew was a tax collector. One of the most sinful professions they lied, cheated, and stole from the poor. The Lord will not let the righteous go hungry, but will thwart the cravings of the wicked. I find “sinners” much more real than the righteous. At least sinners don’t go out of their way to tell everyone they sin.

No one in my philosophy of god class chose to walk away from Omelas. I remember it perfectly. You get to stay in a perfect city where everyone is happy, at the misfortune of one child. I spoke last. I would walk away. I still get chills thinking about it. I don't know why I made that choice.

Often my friends and I debate the existence of god. One philosopher said that you might as well because if you believe and god is real you gain everything, and if he isn't you lose nothing. But if you don't and he is real, you lose everything. We all know there's much more to religion than that. Simply believing in the omnipotent power that destroyed cities and flooded the earth has not, and will never be enough.

Prom was one of the most nerve wracking experiences of my life. I was the first person since my schools founding in 1957 to go to prom with someone of the same sex. That year three of my friends did the same. So much easier to just split the bill with a friend. I had to make a case for why I should be able to. Would the outcome have been different if I told them we were dating.

Questioning whether the omnipotent and all knowing being in the heavens that we cannot see, hear, smell, or touch is apparently against the rules. I got quite sick of the Lord’s Prayer.

Raining from the sky was blood. Thicker than water. Did it bring the people together or did it turn them against each other. The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Blood can bring people together, but I’m not sure it can wash you clean.

Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed by sulfur and fire because of their wickedness. The two cities associated with homosexuality were burned to the ground. We have a history with fire. Fire cannot cleanse what isn’t dirty, but the ash will stain your hands for eternity.

Time stands still as I sit in the pews at my cousin's wedding. It seems like the hands on the clock are moving backwards. Instead of looking at them I stare at the sculpture of Jesus, crucified, blood coming out of his wounds, hanging roughly 10 feet above them. It isn’t alive. I’ve seen the same type of sculpture in a hundred different churches. But in this moment I can hear him gasping for breath. It was a beautiful service, I told her.

Uriel is the angel of repentance. In the Christian text the Apocalypse of Peter he is as pitiless as any demon. The devil himself was once an angel. What's the difference between angels and demons other than name.

Vanity was the reason the devil was cast from heaven. Born an angel and a king, free from sin he became proud of his beauty and intelligence and was struck down by God. I’m still unsure why he is considered the villain. Was it not God who leveled cities and murdered millions.

Without religion I’m unsure of what my life would look like. As hard as I try I cannot cleanly separate myself from it. Like a mouse stuck on a trap, when it gets free it either leaves its skin on the trap, or escapes covered in glue. I’m unsure if I can escape without leaving a part of myself behind, or taking something with me I did not ask for.

X appears 1,436 times in the King James version of the bible, but never at the start of the word. It is the only letter in the english alphabet that a verse does not start with.

Younger me used to enjoy church. I’m not sure why. I could never sit still, the sermons were boring, the pews were uncomfortable, and I couldn’t wait to go home. But without fail every Sunday I would wake up and get ready. I wish I could go back and tell myself that I don’t need to force myself into places I know I don't belong in order to be loved.

Zion shall be redeemed with judgment. I wonder if the same applies to me.

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cutiesonthehorizon · 7 years ago

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Exorcist fic - The Price of Vision part 6

You can find the newest chapter of The Price of Vision under the cut, on AO3 or fanfiction.net. As always, thanks to all who reviewed and commented and specially to starrylizard for her help with a quick beta. All mistakes left are my own.

Hope you’ll enjoy and let me know your thoughts:)

The night before Harper was released from the hospital, Marcus Keane sat on the stairs in front of their motel room. He was holding a rosary, eyes locked on something invisible in the darkness and mouth moving in silent prayer. It was nothing new for him, this praying in solitude, but lately it was like talking to a void. There was nothing on the other side, just the taunting echo of the words the demon in Cindy threw at Marcus several days ago.

'But you're not a priest, are you? Oh, God abandoned you. You're nothing but an empty vessel.'

"Therefore, since we have been justified through faith," Marcus started to pray, even as the demon kept talking, it's vile words cutting deeper and deeper into Marcus' mind.

'Why do you wanna pray, when you know no one's listening to you? You think your friend will discard you too?'

"...we find peace with God through Our Lord Jesus Christ-"

The demon cackled and Cindy's body twisted.

'Father Tomas, God's new favorite. He doesn't need you. You need him, so your wasted life has a purpose.'

"-we glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance-" Marcus found himself repeating the verse, trying to ignore that voice in his head, echoing Cindy's words. God abandoned you. Father Tomas, God's new favorite. He doesn't need you. No one does.

The last one came from somewhere deep inside and suddenly Marcus was back, feeling the hard stairs underneath, the crispness of the night air. He looked up, towards the stars, eyes filled with hurt and fear.

"Why aren't you answering?" he asked with choked voice. "Did I make a mistake? Is this all a mistake?"

There was no answer, no light inside his chest, nothing. Just emptiness and a crawling fear that maybe he was wrong, that taking Tomas onto this journey wasn't what God planned for them. That somehow, he fell from God's grace and there was no way back.

"What do you want from me?" Marcus asked in whisper, looking at the strongest shining star as if it could give him an answer.

The door behind him opened and Marcus jerked when he heard Tomas' voice.

"Marcus? Dinner's ready."

"I'll be right in," Marcus said, his voice hoarse. He could feel Tomas staring at his back, waiting, dying to ask if everything was alright. "Just... give me a minute, yeah?" Marcus chanced a glance and saw Tomas nod, his face wearing a puzzled frown. Still, there was no protest, only the soft click of the closing door and Marcus let out a sigh.

"Why is it that each time I pray for a sign, you bring me him?" Shaking his head, Marcus looked down at his rosary, biting his lip. If God was answering, it was in ways Marcus didn't comprehend and it didn't make him feel any better. Doubt was growing in his heart each day he couldn't feel God's light coursing through his body and he wondered how long it would take until the power of words left him too. What will be left then? Just an empty shell of a boy that watched his mother being murdered by his father, a little boy who pulled the trigger and made himself an orphan. Marcus wasn't sure there would be anything left of him to salvage then.

Tomas knew something was bothering Marcus, something that wasn't connected to Harper or their latest exorcism. Maybe it wasn't even connected to Bennett and the last six months they spent on the road. No, this was something much deeper, lurking and dangerous and Tomas wished he could help his friend fight it. Several times that day he found himself wishing to ask, but knew the older man must decide to tell him himself. With Marcus it was like that... he could be stubborn to death, but the moment he decided, everything came pouring out in raw detail. Tomas hoped that when that happened, he would be near and not held down by his own demons.

They ate dinner in amenable silence. They prayed together and Marcus turned on the TV while Tomas prepared for bed. He still got easily tired and battled the residual headache, but thankfully the dizziness was gone. Lying down in bed, Tomas noted that Marcus at least turned down the volume a bit, although his choice of programming was more than questionable. The screen lit up in fire as an impressive car crash involving too many vehicles to count played out, killing almost everyone on the screen in one or other horrible way. Tomas frowned and Marcus chuckled, popping a candy into his mouth, his eyes shining like a kid who was allowed to stay up late.

"What are you watching?" And why? Tomas wanted to add but bit his lip when he saw the smile on Marcus face.

"Final Destination... dunno which one. Someone who's supposed to die survives and saves the others, so the whole movie they're being killed off in the most absurd ways. It's hilarious," Marcus said just as there was another gruesome death on the screen.

"Sounds... interesting," Tomas muttered, ignoring the smirk Marcus was giving him. "Think I'll give it a pass though. You can tell me in the morning if anyone survived."

"Doubt there will be anything to tell," Marcus said and turned back to the TV, though when there was another loud crash he turned the volume down even more. Tomas fluffed his pillow and lay down, hoping the sounds coming from the TV and Marcus' occasional commentary on the stupidity of one of the protagonist's actions would help lull him into a somehow peaceful sleep.

While he managed to fall asleep rather quickly, the sleep that came was anything but peaceful.

The dream started innocently enough. There was a boat, just a small rowing boat, not much bigger than a canoe. Tomas was in the boat with a paddle in each hand. He was sitting in the middle of a deadly calm lake. There was no ripple on the surface; the dark water looked almost like a mirror. The sky was grey, the sun hidden behind a cloud. Tomas could barely see the shore, the lake was covered with thick mist, but he started rowing and the shore was getting closer.

There was a figure standing on the shore and for a moment Tomas' heart relaxed, thinking it was Marcus here to help with whatever was wrong with this place. Because something was disturbingly wrong, Tomas just couldn't put his finger on it. After what felt like an eternity, Tomas finally reached the shore. A hand reached toward him, offering help getting out of the boat and he gripped it before realizing that this wasn't Marcus at all.

It was a woman... a stranger, but with familiar eyes.

"Quien eres tu?" Tomas asked and the woman smiled, but it wasn't a kind smile and Tomas felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Better question padre is, who are you?" she spoke, but the voice didn't belong to her and Tomas took a step back. He felt his leg stepping into emptiness, he expected to feel the boat under his feet but there was nothing, just cold water. No boat, no pier... and no woman. Only ice coldness and Tomas slipping underneath, gasping for breath and choking on water instead.

He felt himself sinking down into the darkness, felt the water fill his lungs with painful clarity. He wanted to scream, but there were bubbles of precious air leaving his mouth. The darkness closed around him and Tomas thought he might just be dying... maybe he was already dead. There was nothing, only him, the darkness and the sticky wetness pushing against every pore of his skin.

It lasted forever or maybe just a second, Tomas didn't know.

'Tomas?' he heard a familiar voice calling from far away.

'Tomas!'

A hand reached down, bringing light and hope. Tomas blinked, the water stinging his eyes but he didn't care anymore. There was a hand offering deliverance from this nothingness and with last of his strength, Tomas reached towards it.

There was a flash of light, a huge ripple tore through the water and suddenly Tomas was standing on a pier, his clothes dry and his lungs filled with precious air.

The shock of it drove him to his knees, a litany of prayers on his lips. He looked up, searching for the hand but it wasn't there. He still felt the warmth of it coursing through his body, but he was also acutely aware of the darkness crawling all around him in the shadows.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Tomas realized this was just a dream... God, he hoped it was just a dream and not a vision of things to come, but that realization was overridden by the sharpness of his senses, by his feelings. His skin was hot, but there was moist coldness in the air. He could feel a familiar smell of the aftershave and sweat mixed with the less familiar stink of rotting bodies and dead fish. It made his stomach turn, but there was nothing to come up and Tomas swallowed, his mouth suddenly parched. The worst thing however was the utter silence and the stillness of the air. As if time itself stopped.

"Hello?" Tomas called out, startled by the sharpness of the sound he made. It was like a crack of thunder and Tomas quickly turned around, as if expecting to be hit by lightning. It would've been a relief at this point; however, there was no such salvation. Instead there was the sound of steps on the wooden pier.

"Olivia?" Tomas asked with disbelief and frowned at the familiar figure that stepped out from the mist.

"Tomas!" Olivia ran towards him and Tomas enveloped her in a confused hug.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh Tomas, he's gone," Olivia sobbed into his shoulder and Tomas froze.

"Who's gone?" he asked, his voice shaking.

"Luis. They... they took him. You must come back, come back home," Olivia gripped his shirt and looked at him with such despair Tomas couldn't think, couldn't speak. He felt that with each second the warmth that came from the hand raising him from the water was vanishing, being replaced by coldness and dread.

"No, it's not possible. You and Luis are safe in Chicago," Tomas finally said with choked voice, gently pushing Olivia from his chest.

"They took him, Tomas! Because you weren't there, because you couldn't protect us!" Olivia shouted, her pain quickly changing into anger as she hit Tomas on the chest. "They took my boy and he's gone, because you ran away like a little coward you are" the voice changed and Tomas gasped, pushing the woman away from himself. It still bore the face of his sister, but the eyes were wrong... the eyes were metal red and the smile was cold just like that water. The being inclined its head and laughed.

"What's wrong, padre? You don't like to hear the truth?"

"You speak no truth, only lies," Tomas said, a prayer on his lips. 'Father, in the Name of the Lord Jesus Christ I decree that, by your grace and wisdom, I, my family, my church and all those that concern me are well taught of You.'

The being only laughed harder, as if the words were of no consequence here, as if they had no power. Tomas started shaking and backing away, but he still kept on praying.

'We are well grounded in the Word and we know the difference between the holy and the unholy. We have discernment to differentiate the clean from the unclean and the true from the untrue. When life and death is set before us, we choose life. When blessing and cursing is set before us, we choose blessing. Therefore we live and do not die. We do not fall for lies and deception.'

"Ah, lies and deception are such strong words. Maybe I do speak the truth of the future... maybe you really are a coward who left behind his sister and nephew, in a city crawling with demons. Maybe you're the coward who's too afraid to stand up for himself, a coward who must hide in the shadow of an old lion. You're just a cub, Tomas, nothing more. A toothless cub brought to a hunt." Olivia, or rather the being wearing her face cackled and Tomas choked down a sob, shaking his head and repeating the words that should bring him peace.

'Lord, lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For yours is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.'

The being let out a howl of laughter and the metal red eyes turned back to the familiar black, which were now filled with horror.

"Tomas?" Olivia gasped in her own voice, then there was a sickening snap and Tomas watched as his sister fell to the ground in a boneless heap.

"No!" Tomas shouted and rushed over, cradling his sister in his arms. Tears poured down his face as the prayers were forgotten and all he could mumble over and over again was a wish for forgiveness, a plea to God to take him instead and spare his family. The body in his arms twitched and Tomas opened his eyes, only to find that he was no longer holding his sister but Harper, small and barely breathing, a look of accusation in her eyes.

"This is all your fault, Father Tomas. Look at me, look at what you did to me!" Harper gasped hoarsely as blood started pouring from her mouth and Tomas couldn't handle it anymore. He screamed in pain and rage, feeling as if his heart was going to burst from all of it. And suddenly there were hands all over him, small hands of children, sticky with paint and blood and Tomas could take no more. His eyes rolled back inside his skull and all he knew was darkness.

TBC

#the exorcist #renew the exorcist #my fic #the price of vision #new chapter #tomas ortega #marcus keane #whump #h/c #missing scene #season 2 #2x04

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jahaanofmenaphos · 6 years ago

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Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

Read the full work here:

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TUMBLR CHAPTER INDEX

QUEST 02: RITUAL OF THE MAHJARRAT

QUEST SUMMARY:

With the Mahjarrat Ritual upon them, Jahaan, Sir Tiffy and the others venture into the frozen North in an attempt to curtail Lucien’s latest power grab and reclaim the Staff of Armadyl. But a bloodcurdling battle of the Mahjarrat might be the least of their worries…

CHAPTER 2: RETURN OF LUCIEN

Enakhra was annoyed. She’d been waiting beside the Ritual Marker now for hours, shivering in the fiercely cold terrain. Mahjarrat were not made for the winter; her tribe's home world of Freneskae didn’t exactly have anything other than ‘bloody hot’ on the temperature scale. Hence, she much preferred her home in the desert. The only saving grace was that, while waiting, she’d spent the most part of it undisturbed. Akthanakos turned up about an hour ago, not even giving her a small wave in greeting before standing on the opposite end of the plateau. Neither Mahjarrat enjoyed small talk. That, and it was no small secret that the two despised each other. Akthanakos had spent much of his time on Gielinor with the camels in the desert, teaching them to fight and conversing with them through the aptly named ‘camlet’, the amulet of camel-speak. This association went so far that he began being depicted as the ‘camel-headed god’, even by the humans of the desert. Enakhra, on the other hand, had spent thousands of years dwelling inside the temple she had built to honour Zamorak. Her god visited the temple once, and did not receive the gesture as well as Enakhra had hoped. She still found the time to capture and imprison her bitter rival, Akthanakos, inside, until he was eventually freed by a budding explorer.

Such acts did not calm the already turbulent waters between the two...

When’s this thing going to start? Enakhra grumbled internally, cursing herself for her promptness.

Boredom fueled her intense impatience, as there was only so many times you could count the tiles beside the marker or try and catch snowflakes on your tongue. She stopped the latter as soon as Akthanakos had arrived.

Then, as if karma was punishing her for her restlessness, the last person she wanted to talk to teleported in and made a b-line towards her, attempting and failing at a suave swagger.

“Hey Enakhra.”

“Zemouregal,” she rolled her eyes. “I don’t feel like talking right now. There’s plenty of plateau to go around. Go stand with Akky.”

Relaxing into a casual stance, Zemouregal replied, “I think I like it right here.”

Rubbing her cold hands together, she shot him a look of intense irritation. “As if the Ritual wasn't tedious and miserable enough…”

“You know, you really need to get over yourself, Enakhra,” he grumbled, frustration getting the better of him. “You think you’re so much better than everyone, just because you're the last female Mahjarrat. Arrogance doesn't suit you.”

“This coming from the man who wrote ‘This is me. I am amazing’ next to his own name when making notes on the Mahjarrat.”

At this, Zemouregal froze. “How did… y-you read my notes?”

The smile she flashed was wicked. Finally, she thought, I've found a way to shut that mouth of his.

After a long enough silence to make his embarrassment crystal clear, Zemouregal cleared his throat and tried to pick up some of the dignity he'd dropped on the plateau. He narrowed his eyes and tightly warned, “You know, it’s better to make allies than enemies at a time like this.”

“Right,” she scoffed. “Because someone might suggest, ‘I have an idea - shall we kill the last surviving female of our race and doom us all into extinction?’, to which the reply will be, ‘what a splendid idea!’. Yes, Zemouregal. That’s astute.”

“Oh yes, you’re really continuing our survival, pining after Zamorak like that.”

“Shut up,” Enakhra hissed. “When will you take the hint, Zemouregal? I’m. Not. Interested!”

Zemouregal threw his hands in the air. “It’s literally for the survival of our species! Our child would be the future of our race!”

“If the future of our race has your blood, evolution has already failed us.”

Jahaan woke up at dawn, having gained only a handful of hours of sleep. With all that had transpired the previous day, relaxation wasn’t exactly in the cards for him. After tossing and turning for about an hour, he finally lulled himself to sleep by counting sheep. A classic, but when you get up to three hundred and two, your brain shuts down out of boredom.

Pulling himself out of bed, he rubbed the sand from around his eyes. The bunk next to him, Ali’s, was already empty, and the door to their chamber was open.

Stumbling to his feet, Jahaan dragged himself out the door, thinking some brisk morning air would wake him up enough to begin the day. When he reached the balcony, Ali was already outside, pondering up at the fading stars that were being eased from the sky by dawn’s early light.

Ali didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to. Instead, he simply stated, “The planets have aligned. The Ritual begins now.”

Once everyone awoke that morning, preparations were immediately made for the Ritual to come. This included gearing up with armour, weapons and other useful items. Now, while he did have a rather nice runite dagger, Jahaan didn’t fancy his chances against Lucien with a fishing net and a tinderbox. Bringing this up to Sir Tiffy, the old knight assured he’d sort him out in a jiffy.

The longer he awaited Sir Tiffy’s return, the more his excitement grew. The anticipation of getting to wear some decent armour was like a boyhood dream come true. After all, the best he’d ever worn was mithril, way back in the day. It was incredibly decent, for sure, but Temple Knight armour - heck, even White Knight armour - was superior to that.

His expectations were soaring.

However, when Sir Tiffy returned with three squires in tow, two heaving large, dusty crates and a third hefting a long, rickety box, his expectations were cut down a little bit.

“‘Fraid there was a little snafew, old sport. Something about protocol, initiations, yada-yada… long story short, the armoury’s off limits to you, my lad.”

Doing his best to hide his disappointment, Jahaan watched with quiet desperation as Sir Tiffy blew onto the old crates, an innocuous act that ended up forming a dust cloud so big he started choking on it.

“These here belong to a couple of the knights,” Sir Tiffy continued, wiping his monocle clear. “I say, it’s been here almost as long as I have. They forgot they even had it! What?”

With apprehension far overwhelming his former anticipation, Jahaan pried the lid off the first crate. However, when he laid eyes on the contents, he gulped, mouth suddenly feeling very dry.

Then, he started to grin.

“I think this’ll do just fine.”

Jahaan would leave the White Knights Castle wearing his new armour, a full set of runite. It fit like a glove, moulded perfectly to his form. While he thought that mithril was good, compared to wearing runite, mithril was like wearing granite. The mobility it provided was so significant, he felt like he could traverse the Barbarian Agility Course in this thing. Plus, it was so much lighter in weight, and a lot quieter too - no more bumbling about with the stealth and grace of a pigeon. Despite being second hand, there was barely a scratch on it, and no dents in sight. Jahaan wondered if it had ever been worn.

The weapons he had been provided with… ehh…

Glass half full, glass half full, Jahaan reminded himself, awkwardly clutching his steel kiteshield and scimitar.

Full runite armour, full steel weapons.

One of these things is not like the other.

Soon enough, everyone was ready to go to the Ritual.

Idria and Sir Tiffy tried, in vain, to convince Akrisae to stay behind and not attend the Ritual - the man was a priest who hadn’t swung a sword in over twenty years - but he couldn’t be talked out of going, preaching something about wanting to keep a ‘close eye’ on the Mahjarrat. It was like arguing with a brick wall.

Sir Tiffy gathered a group of his strongest Temple Knights to accompany him, while Idria took two other Guardians of Armadyl alongside her. They didn’t have too many to spare, to be honest. Thaerisk rounded up some druids that had combat experience to attend as well.

Fortunately, all the druids were well-versed in teleportation magic and, between them, they managed to teleport the entire entourage in one go.

In the iciest depths of the Wilderness was the Mahjarrat Ritual Site. Technically it was located within Troll Country, between the Trollweiss Mountains, but no trolls had traversed the Ritual Site in centuries. The closest points of ‘civilisation’ were Zemouregal's Fortress to the west, and the abandoned Zarosian fortress of Ghorrock to the north. Aside from the Marker and a few crumbled pillars, the plateau was vast and empty, blanketed by snow.

Fortunately, Ali had told them all to dress up warm enough, but nevertheless, neither knight nor druid was prepared for just how cold the site was.

“I say!” Sir Tiffy hunched his shoulders. “A bit nippy, isn’t it, ol’ chap?”

Ali, too, was shivering, despite having detoured back to his home in Nardah for some fur-lined clothes. “This is why I like the desert. Before we continue, I wanted to reiterate how thankful I am to have the support of your forces against Lucien. I fear we will need them before long. These things never go down peacefully. The other Mahjarrat will have their own forces, too. One just hopes they train them on Lucien and not us.”

“Think nothing of it, ol’ chap, “Sir Tiffy slapped Ali on the back. “We want him gone just as much as you.”

Smiling warmly, Ali said, “Come now, the Ritual Marker itself is just up this ridge…”

But before they could walk much further, Ali stopped abruptly, sensing a disturbance.

Then, in a whirl of blue and purple, a bulky looking Mahjarrat warrior in battle-hardened steel and black armour teleported into the fray. A skull emblem was emblazoned crookedly upon his chest, matching the bare skeleton of his skinless head. His sword was about as tall as Jahaan, and looked like it weighed as much, though he carried the razor-sharp blade with ease, what with his frame being as bulky and as statuesque as it was.

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then this particular Mahjarrat had flattered a lot of large boulders in his time.

Accompanying him were human troops - looking like dwarves in comparison, but they were most certainly human - in similar armour, carrying steel longswords. When looking between the Mahjarrat’s blade and the ones the human’s carried, they might as well have been wielding butter knives.

The Mahjarrat drove his sword into the snow and rested on the hilt. “So, all the vermin together in a pack, ready to be slaughtered like lambs!”

Ali the Wise rolled his eyes. “You never were our brightest star, Khazard. 'Vermin slaughtered like lambs'? What mess of idioms is that?”

Despite the insult, General Khazard’s fearsome demeanour relaxed into a somewhat casual one. He squinted his eyes, leaning forward slightly. “Wahisietel, is that you?”

“What are you talking about?” Sir Tiffy demanded. “Who's Wahisietel?”

Khazard pointed to Ali, a baffled smirk getting the better of him. “He is!”

With a wave of his hand, Khazard cast a spell that engulfed Ali the Wise in stars and glowing white light. In mere moments, it faded away, leaving a olive robed Mahjarrat in its place, red lines crossing over his slightly spiked skull, with a gem in the middle of his forehead.

Akrisae jumped back, aghast. “What in Saradomin's name is this? What fowl abomination have you brought upon us, Jahaan?!”

Instead of answering, Jahaan regarded Ali with solemn, heavy eyes, mumbling, “...Ali?...”

Frowning, Ali turned to Jahaan and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I apologise for the deception, my friend. ‘Ali’ was a necessary disguise in human lands. My real name is Wahisietel.”

The Mahjarrat turned to the apprehensive knights and warriors - alongside a fearful priest - behind him and addressed, “You need not fear me. I am still on your side. Do not waver now, save your holy crusades for later. We have Khazard and his lackeys here to worry about first.”

“And worried you should be!” Khazard scowled, “I think you'll make the perfect sacrifice for the Ritual, Wahisietel, just as soon as we've dealt with these maggots!”

Akrisae edged closer to Sir Tiffy and whispered, “Should we get some more back-up?”

“No need…”

This response did not come from Sir Tiffy. Rather, it came from Azzanadra, who materialised just in front of them. Bringing forth a ball of pulsing energy to his palms, he stared down Khazard and declared, “This child is not worth the effort. We can deal with him ourselves.”

“Knights, ADVANCE!” Sir Tiffy bellowed, causing his Temple Knights to surge into combat. They clashed with Khazard’s mortal troop, black and white melting together as steel battled with armour and, occasionally, flesh.

From their vantage point beside the Marker, Enakhra and Zemouregal just sat back and enjoyed the show, the latter wishing he had bought drinks and refreshments. Akthanakos watched on with trepidation, not daring to get involved.

They watched as Azzanadra sent a rush of smoke to engulf Khazard, seeing him stumble backwards ever so slightly, only to return with a fierce blood spell of his own that Azzanadra barely had time to deflect.

The younger Mahjarrat had discarded his sword very quickly, having enough wits about him to know to fight fire with fire, and that trying to cross the distance of the plateau to charge his opponents with his blade would leave him vulnerable. Alongside his impressive sword skills, Khazard was an incredibly apt sorcerer, casting intrinsic and deadly blood and smoke spells with ease.

Unfortunately for him, Wahisteil and Azzanadra were a lot more proficient, especially the latter, and thus the younger Mahjarrat realised soon on he had bitten off more than he could chew. Nevertheless, he kept fighting on, knowing that all it took was one well-placed, highly impactful strike on his part to extinguish the flame of one of his Mahjarrat brethren, and it would all be over. The Ritual would be complete, everyone else would be rejuvenated, and he wouldn’t have to see any of the miserable fools for another five hundred years.

That last thought alone made fighting an uphill battle much easier.

Between them, Jahaan, the Guardians of Armadyl and the Temple Knights managed to keep Khazard’s elite troops at bay, allowing Wahisietel and Azzanadra to take on Khazard personally. The soldier’s Khazard had bought were incredibly well-versed in melee combat, holding their own against the numbers disadvantage quite formidably. A handful of Temple Knights even fell victim to their blades, and one of the Guardians of Armadyl severely wounded her leg due to a carefully targeted lunge of a dagger, effectively sidelining her for the rest of the ensuing battle. While a couple of druids tended to her, the other two continued their assault on the Khazard troops from a distance, sending precise and effective spells at their opponents.

With a malicious cackle from Khazard, a targeted burst of lightning struck the ground beside him and, from the crack in the earth, a skeletal, ghostly apparition pulled itself from the ground. When it reached the surface, it was apparent that this was Khazard’s deceased hellhound - and Postie Pete’s worst nightmare - Bouncer, raised from its eternal slumber to aid him in combat once more. Bearing his teeth with a constant growl, his mouth was full of daggers.

The undead hellhound launched itself at Jahaan, gnashing teeth biting and snapping at the young man who fell to his back in shock. His shield fell to the side, but luckily, Jahaan got his scimitar up to protect his head, pushing back Bouncer with all his strength as the dog tried to chew his sword in two. Jahaan shrunk back into the snow, wincing away from the growling and barking monster pinning him to the ground. Then, suddenly, Bouncer fell limp on top of him with a muffled whine before disappearing in a puff of smoke altogether. Looking up, Jahaan saw Wahisietel send him a brief nod of reassurance before resuming his attack on Khazard. Scrambling to his feet, Jahaan readjusted his grip on his sword and went to work on some of the remaining Khazard troops.

Before long, all of Khazard’s elite troops were all defeated, scattered and wounded in crimson patches around the plateau. Azzanadra’s latest blast had sent Khazard to the ground, next to the unconscious body of one of his soldiers. After looking around and seeing his army in pieces, realisation sunk in.

General Khazard pulled himself to his feet, clutching his wounded shoulder. “Ha! You think I'll end up being the one sacrificed today? Not likely!”

In a flash, he teleported away, the sound of maniacal laughter being the only remnant he left behind.

Jahaan’s shoulders sagged. “After all that, he just runs off?”

Wahisietel straightened his cuffs. “Fear not, Jahaan. Khazard may be a cowardly child, but even he is not stupid enough to leave the area at such an important time. He’ll return.”

Leaving the wounded where they were to be tended to by druids, the remaining forces of Sir Tiffy, flanked by the Mahjarrat, made their way up towards the Ritual Marker. Azzanadra scowled at Zemouregal, the first one to catch his eye, but did exchange a friendly nod of greeting to Akthanakos.

“And here I was hoping Khazard could be sacrificed before I had to bother conversing with you two,” Azzanadra cast heavy eyes at the two Zamorakian Mahjarrat.

“It’s not going to be Khazard,” Zemouregal stated, his challenging glare not flinching against the weight of Azzanadra’s. “I’m not having a Zamorakian sacrificed today.”

Enakhra joined him, “As much as I hate to agree with this tool, I concur.”

Akthanakos protested, “No! It will be Lucien or Khazard. Oh how I’d love it to be you, Enakhra. If you weren’t the last of your gender, you’d have been thrown to the Marker ages ago.”

“Well, it’s not going to be me. Besides, I would toss you to the Marker without even breaking a sweat.”

“Your mind is warped by your arrogance, Enhakra,” Akthanakos growled. “My power supersedes yours with ease, and I’ll take on any Zamorakian that challenges me.”

“Please! You were too scared to join in on the fun.”

“I didn’t see you throwing any punches out there!”

Stomping away from the pack, Wahisietel demanded into the skies, “This is ridiculous. Come out and fight, Khazard! Prove yourself, coward, or face oblivion!”

“Khazard's not here... Will I do, Wahisietel?” the voice floated alongside the snowflakes, sinister and malicious.

Wahisietel’s eyes narrowed. “Lucien!”

“Yes, it is I…”

In a haze of black and smoke, Lucien teleported directly in front of the Ritual Marker. From years of decay his skin had withered away to nothingness, leaving only the frail, haunting shell of his skeletal frame. The crimson robes he draped himself in did little to shield the emptiness of his body. Yet despite his hollow exterior, he somehow managed to give an imposing, almost commanding presence. Perhaps it was the way his robes flowed that gave the illusion of strength and muscle, or the pulled back lips that showed the ridges of his jaw, or the sunken black sockets of his eyes being filled with an icy green glow. There was a stench of death and overwhelming magic that surrounded him, too.

Zemouregal strode to stand closer to the arriving Mahjarrat. “Greetings, cousin. You came at the perfect time. I was growing tired of these Zarosians.”

Instinctively, Idria’s fists clenched into tight balls, her vision turning red as she spat, “Lucien, you murderer!”

Lucien cackled, regarding the assembled entourage with disgust. “And what's this? You've bought some feeble excuse for backup with you too. Who do we have… a faltering priest, an old man, and-”

When his eyes laid on Jahaan, they lit up with malice. “And so we meet again, adventurer.”

“And this time will be the last time, Lucien,” Jahaan didn’t care how cliched he sounded. “You'll answer for the deaths you've caused.”

“How dare you address a god in such an insolent tone!” Lucien exclaimed, venom on his tongue.

Wahisietel retorted, “You're no god, Lucien. You’re just a petty thief.”

“Well said!” Sir Tiffy cheered. “Where’s the Stone, sneak?”

“Like I'd tell you. The Stone is mine and mine alone. Allow me to demonstrate some of the power these new artefacts have given me!”

With a hand in the air, Lucien summonend the Staff of Armadyl into his grasp with a malevolent sneer. Holding the Staff aloft, Lucien caused a grey skull of smoke and ash to emanate from the peak. It washed over him, transforming into pulsing rings of black and purple energy. The ground began to shake, cracking the ice. From these cracks, the ground morphed into two dozen ice-based monsters, covered in spikes and flashing glowing red eyes.

Wahisietel shrunk back a few steps. “Oh no… this isn’t good at all…”

Sir Tiffy, on the other hand, kept a steady expression of resolve. “We'll do our bit if you can hold off Lucien again, old chap!”

Wahisietel nodded. “I'll do what I can, but I fear this will require more power than I own.”

“Then perhaps it is time for us to fight alongside each other once more, brother...” a voice echoed through the crisp breeze.

Fading out of thin air came a black and purple robed being; his skinless appearance and tall stature suggested he, too, was a Mahjarrat. He was hunched over, wringing his skeletal hands together constantly, like some sort of nervous tick.

Jahaan jumped backwards as the man appeared next to him. “Gah! Where did he come from?”

Wahisietel hurried beside the newcomer, a relieved smile breaking into his face. “Praise Zaros! Sliske! Always in the right place at the right time.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Ah, Sliske. I wondered when you might slink in... but you should have stayed hidden in your shadows this time. What can you alone hope to do against the power of Lucien?”

Sliske’s lipless mouth cracked into a grin, his lifeless eyes challenging Lucien. “Who said anything about being alone?”

Teleporting backwards, Sliske held out his arms, and they began to shake and quiver as energy pulsed through them. One by one, six fully armoured warriors were summoned in front of him. Their green armour was cracked and dented, rusted slightly from age, but their weapons, my... they were unparalleled, some of the finest craftsmanship in the five ages. One held a large crossbow with a quiver full of knife-like bolts at his hip. Another, a fearsome battleaxe that looked like it weighed as much as he did. One held a ball and chain, another a curved spear, and another a twin set of warhammers. The last, hooded and cloaked, held a battlestaff. Though they all wore some sort of face protection, one thing could be realised if looking closely enough…

...they didn’t have pupiled eyes.

Sneering, Zemouregal drawled, “Still the puppetmaster as always, Sliske. Well, two can play at that game…”

In a wisp of darkness and shadows, Zemouregal summoned his loyal gargoyle commander, Sharathteerk, to his side, alongside half a dozen armoured zombies. The poor being hadn’t quite got around to dying yet, it seemed.

“I come at your call, my lord,” Sharathteerk bowed before his master, his rocky joints creaking with the action.

Gritting his teeth, Lucien pointed towards Sliske and the surrounding group, barking, “DESTROY THEM ALL!”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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#runescape #fiction #sliske

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mymusecommands · 8 years ago

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Even Gods Get Tired (Prep. Scene 4)

A/N: Here is the second installment of scenes introducing Christine’s upbringing. This scene is also the debut of another original character of mine named Kamil. I really love their relationship, and I wanted to show how Christine’s different siblings treat her. I hope you guys enjoy this cute scene.

Length: 1.4k

Tagged:@caplanbuckybarnes@bartallenisms@withoutmyguiltandmyhair@gorebitchev@sandrathingie@crow-sizna@deanwinnchesterisbae

As the future redeemer of her country, Christine had much to learn, to master, before she could take up the mantle of her destiny. A good leader was well versed in history, fluent and deliberate with language, considerate and nuanced, compassionate and ruthless, all to the right degrees. A good leader, meant to break the endless cycle of war and isolation in a land severed from the world, could fight with every weapon, in every style, with every form of magic. Good, however, was not good enough. A child of the gods needed to be perfect.

She had twenty years to become that perfect leader.

Not a second was allowed to be wasted. Or so she thought. Between her prayers and lessons and training and lectures and trips and meetings, she was occupied enough to not even consider wasting time. After a decade and a half, she began to see rest as a waste. Rest and play and relaxation became nuisances.

Her time was running out, and so she treated every moment as precious. To some, it looked like obsession, neglect, unhealthy, even, but no one who thought so understood the weight on her shoulders.

Others who knew all too well still pushed back at her. Well, not others. One other.

Christine had three siblings. They were not bound by blood, none of her so-called relatives were, but it made no difference. Azerrad was the oldest, the golden child, the priest. Rashanda's perfect son. Felisha, the middle sister, was one of Spade's kin. A hemalian kindra who could level entire armies before she was fully grown.

And then there was Kamil. A human. A mainlander. Set adrift from her homeland of Agrabah and nearly swallowed up by the sea, she was the miracle. At five years older than Christine, she was also the youngest. The only one who had not yet grown weary of time, she took every opportunity to get her sister to throw it away.

"You said Azerrad wanted to see me. Where is he?" Christine said, her bare feet making temporary prints in the sand underneath them. The sun was casting its last rays of orange as it neared the horizon, and the beach was empty save for two early risers.

Kamil smiled and raised her hands so she could fold them behind her head. "I may have taken a wrong turn or two on the way," she said. Her voice was deep, but along with Cat, she was training it to not be as low. That along with therapy from the mayapta, a master of transformation, was helping her along in feeling more comfortable with herself.

Christine stopped in her tracks. "Seriously Kamil? This again? Where is he waiting for me, then? You know I have a schedule!" The admonition was half-hearted at best. She was fighting back a smile, actually.

Kamil pointed the toes on one foot and swept them through the sand. She grinned. "I may have exaggerated the urgency of his message. You know me, always absent-minded." That was a jab at Rashanda, but Christine ignored it.

She looked out at the setting sun and inhaled the warm, salty air combing through the cloud of curls around her head. "Master does not like me wasting time. Neither do my parents."

Kamil slung an arm around her and began to walk again. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Azerrad and Felisha hate it too, but you misunderstand. This isn't wasting time." She slid her hand from its place on Christine's shoulder down to grasp her hand. "You barely sleep, all you do is work." She raised their hands and twirled Christine in a circle. "You're still a kid. I think they keep forgetting that."

Christine let go of her with a small frown. "I know I am and so do they. No other child has my responsibility, Kamil. Sometimes I feel that you do not care about it."

Kamil huffed. "Again, you misunderstand." She closed the space between them and wound one of Christine's curls around her finger. "It's not that I don't care, coo-coo head. I do this because I care about you, not just the prophecy. You still have time." She kissed her forehead and finally saw the smile she had been waiting for.

Christine batted her hand away after another moment and kicked up some sand. "Alright, you have me. I know you would not drag me out of bed just to walk. What have you planned?"

Kamil laughed. "Follow me and you'll see. I will challenge you on one thing, though." She began to walk again, Christine in tow. "You weren't sleeping. I saw your scrolls open. You just crawled into bed because you heard me coming."

When Christine's fingers twined around the long white chain hanging around her neck and she averted her sea-green gaze, Kamil poked her cheek. "I am sorry, but I will be speaking to the Stewards of Integrity for the first time in a couple of months. On my own. I need to make sure my speech is perfect."

"It will be. You're smart and you know it. A couple of hours won't sap the intelligence out of you, not matter how much Rashanda tells you it will," Kamil said. She stopped at a large square tent constructed out of mismatched blankets and sheets.

"Rashanda just wants what is best for me," Christine said. She owed her mentor much, and Azerrad owed the same woman everything. It still struck her when Kamil was irreverent, and no matter how many times it happened, she still expected Rashanda to emerge from the floor to scold them both.

"You know what's good for you? Rest! Now come on in, I have snacks in here," Kamil said, ducking past a pair of flaps. She flopped onto the makeshift floor made out of towels, more blankets, and a multitude of pillows.

Christine followed her, then turned around and folded the entrance open so she still had a view of the ocean. "Really? How long have you had this set up?"

Kamil tossed her a large, round mango and patted the spot next to her. "A couple of weeks. I've started watching some local kids while their parents work. Azerrad's been giving me more free time now that you're serving with him."

Christine sat beside her and watched the waves turn shades of gold and ruby. "That sounds fun. Kids love you," she said with a smile. She began to peel the mango skin back in equal strips.

"Yeah, well, you were the first to. Remember when we tried to catch that bird living up in the branches of your house and Azerrad freaked? It was so funny!" Kamil said. She was breaking off pieces from a loaf of bread.

Christine tried to wipe the mango juice dribbling down her chin with the back of her hand. Kamil took a small cloth that had been lying around and handed it to her. "Do you think you want to work with Azerrad permanently?"

Kamil shushed her. Then when Christine opened her mouth to speak, shushed her again. "No work talk. I told you we're here to relax." She sat up. “You see the ocean out there?"

Christine nodded, following her gaze to the now darkened sky and waves. All whispering to the sand and wind.

"It doesn't care. It simply is. Sometimes it's better to not care." She put an arm around her and drew her in close.

Christine deflated. "What if you do not have a choice but to care?"

Kamil snorted. "There's always a choice, coo-coo head. You don't have to care about everything all the time. You're not there yet."

Christine searched the whispers in the waves for a confirmation of her own feelings. She would be crossing that ocean in a few years. She would become the bridge reaching across it in just as little time. How could she possibly relax when she would bear such weight so soon?

Kamil got up and moved in front of her. Her orange eyes captivated Christine for long enough to say this," Listen to me. Someone has to take care of the person who will rule us. Your mind and your skill and your magic all live in the hands of the best the world has to offer. I know I'm not the best to hold onto your sleepy eyes and weary hands, but I'll try my best to make sure they're tended to as well."

Christine dropped the mango and let her sister take her hands. They were sticky, and Kamil squeezed them.

"We all need you, but that doesn't mean you're not allowed to need us, too. Even the gods get tired."

#rs #sb #short #latinx writers #lgbt writers #original fiction

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dfroza · 5 years ago

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Today’s reading in the ancient book of Proverbs and Psalms

for Thursday, may 14 of 2020 with Proverbs 14 and Psalm 14 accompanied by Psalm 57 for the 57th day of Spring and Psalm 135 for day 135 of the year

[Proverbs 14]

Every wise woman encourages and builds up her family,

but a foolish woman over time will tear it down by her own actions.

Lovers of truth follow the right path

because of their wonderment and worship of God.

But the devious display their disdain for him.

The words of a proud fool will all come back to haunt him.

But the words of the wise

will become a shield of protection around them.

The only clean stable is an empty stable.

So if you want the work of an ox and to enjoy an abundant harvest,

you’ll have a mess or two to clean up!

An honest witness will never lie,

but a deceitful witness lies with every breath.

The intellectually arrogant seek for wisdom,

but they never seem to discover

what they claim they’re looking for.

For revelation-knowledge flows to the one

who hungers for understanding.

The words of the wise are like weapons of knowledge.

If you need wise counsel, stay away from the fool.

For the wisdom of the wise will keep life on the right track,

while the fool only deceives himself

and refuses to face reality.

Fools mock the need for repentance,

while the favor of God rests upon all his lovers.

Don’t expect anyone else to fully understand

both the bitterness and the joys

of all you experience in your life.

The household of the wicked is soon torn apart,

while the family of the righteous flourishes.

You can rationalize it all you want

and justify the path of error you have chosen,

but you’ll find out in the end that you took the road to destruction.

Superficial laughter can hide a heavy heart,

but when the laughter ends, the pain resurfaces.

Those who turn from the truth get what they deserve,

but a good person receives a sweet reward.

A gullible person will believe anything,

but a sensible person will confirm the facts.

A wise person is careful in all things and turns quickly from evil,

while the impetuous fool moves ahead with overconfidence.

An impulsive person has a short fuse and can ruin everything,

but the wise show self-control.

The naïve demonstrate a lack of wisdom,

but the lovers of wisdom are crowned with revelation-knowledge.

Evil ones will pay tribute to good people

and eventually come to be servants of the godly.

The poor are disliked even by their neighbors,

but everyone wants to get close to the wealthy.

It’s a sin to despise one who is less fortunate than you,

but when you are kind to the poor,

you will prosper and be blessed.

Haven’t you noticed how evil schemers always wander astray?

But kindness and truth come to those

who make plans to be pure in all their ways.

If you work hard at what you do,

great abundance will come to you.

But merely talking about getting rich

while living to only pursue your pleasures

brings you face-to-face with poverty.

The true net worth of the wise is the wealth that wisdom imparts.

But the way of life for the fool is his foolishness.

Speak the truth and you’ll save souls,

but in the spreading of lies treachery thrives.

Confidence and strength flood the hearts

of the lovers of God who live in awe of him,

and their devotion provides their children

with a place of shelter and security.

To worship God in wonder and awe

opens a fountain of life within you,

empowering you to escape death’s domain.

A king glories in the number of his loyal followers,

but a dwindling population spells ruin for any leader.

When your heart overflows with understanding

you’ll be very slow to get angry.

But if you have a quick temper,

your impatience will be quickly seen by all.

A tender, tranquil heart will make you healthy,

but jealousy can make you sick.

Insult your Creator, will you?

That’s exactly what you do

every time that you oppress the powerless!

Showing kindness to the poor is equal to honoring your maker.

The wicked are crushed by every calamity,

but the lovers of God find a strong hope

even in the time of death.

Wisdom soothes the heart of the one with living-understanding,

but the heart of the fool just stockpiles stupidity.

A nation is exalted by the righteousness of its people,

but sin heaps disgrace upon the land.

A wise and faithful servant receives promotion from the king,

but the one who acts disgracefully

gets to taste the anger of the king.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 14 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 14]

For the worship leader. A song of David.

A wicked and foolish man truly believes there is no God.

They are vile, their sinfulness nauseating to their Creator;

their actions are soiled and repulsive; every deed is depraved;

not one of them does good.

The Eternal leans over from heaven to survey the sons of Adam.

No one is missed, and no one can hide.

He searches to see who understands true wisdom,

who desires to know the True God.

They all turn their backs, walking their own roads;

they are rancid, leaving a trail of rotten footsteps behind them;

not one of them does good,

not even one.

Do the wicked have no clue about what really matters?

They devour my brothers and sisters the way a man eats his dinner.

They ignore the Eternal and don’t call on Him, rejecting His reality and truth.

They shall secretly tremble behind closed doors, hearts beating hard within their chests,

knowing that God always avenges the upright.

You laugh at the counsel of the poor, the needy, the troubled who put their trust in God.

You try to take away their only hope,

but the Eternal is a strong shelter in the heaviest storm.

May a new day, a day of deliverance come for Israel, starting with Zion.

When the Eternal breaks the chains of His oppressed people,

the family of Jacob will rejoice, and Israel will be delighted.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 14 (The Voice)

with this verse mirrored in The Passion Translation:

The Lord looks down in love,

bending over heaven’s balcony,

looking over all of Adam’s sons and daughters.

He’s looking to see if there is anyone who acts wisely,

any who are searching for God and wanting to please him.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 14:2 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 57]

Triumphant Faith

To the Pure and Shining One

King David’s golden song of instruction composed when he hid from Saul in a cave

To the tune of “Do Not Destroy”

Please, God, show me mercy!

Open your grace-fountain for me,

for you are my soul’s true shelter.

I will hide beneath the shadow of your embrace,

under the wings of your cherubim,

until this terrible trouble is past.

I will cry out to you, the God of the highest heaven,

the mighty God, who performs all these wonders for me.

From heaven he will send a father’s help to save me.

He will trample down those who trample me.

Pause in his presence

He will always show me love

by his gracious and constant care.

I am surrounded by these fierce and brutal men.

They are like lions just wanting to tear me to shreds.

Why must I continue to live among these seething terrorists,

breathing out their angry threats and insults against me?

Lord God, be exalted as you soar throughout the heavens.

May your shining glory be seen in the skies!

Let it be seen high above over all the earth!

For they have set a trap for me.

Frantic fear has me overwhelmed.

But look! The very trap they set for me

has sprung shut upon themselves instead of me!

Pause in his presence

My heart, O God, is quiet and confident.

Now I can sing with passion your wonderful praises!

Awake, O my soul, with the music of his splendor-song!

Arise, my soul, and sing his praises!

My worship will awaken the dawn,

greeting the daybreak with my songs of praise!

Wherever I go I will thank you, my God.

Among all the nations they will hear my praise songs to you.

Your love is so extravagant it reaches to the heavens,

Your faithfulness so astonishing it stretches to the sky!

Lord God, be exalted as you soar throughout the heavens.

May your shining glory be shown in the skies!

Let it be seen high above all the earth!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 57 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 135]

Hallelujah!

Praise the name of God,

praise the works of God.

All you priests on duty in God’s temple,

serving in the sacred halls of our God,

Shout “Hallelujah!” because God’s so good,

sing anthems to his beautiful name.

And why? Because God chose Jacob,

embraced Israel as a prize possession.

I, too, give witness to the greatness of God,

our Lord, high above all other gods.

He does just as he pleases—

however, wherever, whenever.

He makes the weather—clouds and thunder,

lightning and rain, wind pouring out of the north.

He struck down the Egyptian firstborn,

both human and animal firstborn.

He made Egypt sit up and take notice,

confronted Pharaoh and his servants with miracles.

Yes, he struck down great nations,

he slew mighty kings—

Sihon king of the Amorites, also Og of Bashan—

every last one of the Canaanite kings!

Then he turned their land over to Israel,

a gift of good land to his people.

God, your name is eternal,

God, you’ll never be out-of-date.

God stands up for his people,

God holds the hands of his people.

The gods of the godless nations are mere trinkets,

made for quick sale in the markets:

Chiseled mouths that can’t talk,

painted eyes that can’t see,

Carved ears that can’t hear—

dead wood! cold metal!

Those who make and trust them

become like them.

Family of Israel, bless God!

Family of Aaron, bless God!

Family of Levi, bless God!

You who fear God, bless God!

Oh, blessed be God of Zion,

First Citizen of Jerusalem!

Hallelujah!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 135 (The Message)

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