Fight The Machine

Forgive me, Lunaaro, but I feel I must speak these words directly to you: this day – this ‘All-Father’s Day’ – will never be one on which I may revel.

I stand amongst your hopefuls and I see naught but the dangers they bring in their brazen pursuit to ennoble your teachings on this illiberal plane.

They gather, en mass, annually, donning their Planar-inspired regalia, positively littered with vibrant colors and crude stones; they bring with them their cherished trappings and all there talent and dreams; but more importantly, they bring with them the dictatorial hand of the Commonality.

Bloodshed is inevitable.

“Spots…” the moniker drew me out of my glaze and my eyes unto the dazzling ambers of my cohorts gaze. He wore a distressed twist on his lips and a brow wrought with concern, a far cry from his typical sanguinity.

“You’re pouting.” To which he flashed a wry grin, his voice barely carrying over the emphatic trill of the nights festivities.

I sighed gently and force what I hoped would serve as a passable smile. It only took a tilted and raise of Grincrow’s brow to chastise my poor attempt. He followed with a sigh of his own, a heavy breath to match the one I had given before, and I cast my eye out over the field leaving a dry silence between us.

Toghether we watched the jovial antics of fellow Pilgrims and those who were fresh faces to the Order, and even gleeful sprites guising themselves as creatures native to the Material Plane. A handful of practiced Pilgrims had gathered at the center of it all and channelled through the Viel ethereal orbs of glittering light that streamed and sparkled through the air lighting the evening sky in brazen glory to be seen for leagues; an invitation to all, ally and foe alike.

We were not to be silenced.

“Let them come,” Grincrow uttered, gripping the freshly wrapped shaft of his nomad staff. “And if we must fight for our void-given freedoms then may the Vieled Railway guide us to our final stop.”

I turn my eye to him and he bore a calmed smile on his stubbled face. In his eyes I saw the same fearless determination that had become characteristic of that generation of Pilgrims. The same determination I had seen snuffed out year and year past.

A steady roar rolled in just over the cacophony that was the revery of The First of The Pilgrims and we both drew our eyes toward the mountains overshadowing and enclosing the village in the valley. Had come to equate that thunderous hum with tension and loss.

I turned up my own staff and, producing a scrap of flint, I struck at the flare candle affixed to one end.

“May the Vieled Railway see us through to another journey.” I corrected my cohort and let the smoldering flare sail out over the valley and bathe the festival in glaring orange.


Daily Prompt: Trill

Word of The Day: Reverie


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