Moth Form

 

 

-Aquaria's Bio-
 

 
 

 

Prelude
 
War and the pain it brings not even time can fully mend. Though the peasants may move on, and the sacrifices are romanticized by the generations that follow. And even if the scars somehow heal, the influence of those wrinkles forever alters the composition of the land and its inhabitants. The foreboding truth is war has changed; the era of technology has forever shaped the landscape. The eons of honing one's craft rapidly dissolve and fade into obscurity, as the quick resolution of the caster rifle has served as a catalyst to bridge the gap between seasoned, and more green soldiers. 
 
The white sands empire is undergoing a cultural, technological, and spiritual metamorphosis that will only further sow divisive seeds of discourse. A storm lurks just beyond the horizon, a battle for the very soul and future of my homeland. My story, my story, is just that of a humble man, thrust into a spiral of self-destruction. A pawn of the state, a weapon of war. Hero to some, an insidious demon to others. The reality is seldom so easy to categorize as the truth often falls in the middle. Like all who live by the sword, I have done terrible things for the right reasons. But good intentions seldom bear benevolent fruit, if only the world were so simple. This is my story, one of the last masters of a dying craft trying to find their place in this ever-shifting sands of his world.
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1, “Forged in fire.”
 
Like all young men, I honored the old ways. Finding peace in “simpler” times, my naivety clear now with the gift of hindsight. Yet during those blissful days of my youth, I found myself blinded and enamored by the honor of conflict. My father instilled in me from a young age that a man’s merit can only be achieved when properly tested by the inferno of war. Like a furnace, the clashing and smoldering heat hammered away a man’s imperfections, leaving behind the true mettle of one’s worth. Even now, despite all that has transpired in my life. I can appreciate the truth in those words. 
 
My father never lied to me; rather, I misinterpreted what it was he meant. Casting aside his wisdom and subtle warnings as a sign to further my arrogant delusions of grandeur. It is with great disdain, peering back through the lens of time, that I wish I knew then what I knew now. Like many, I also envy the road not taken, frivolously pondering how things would have turned out if I had turned left and not right. But we are each the masters of our own destiny, the path I set was my own. A reality though bitter and bleak still must be accepted if progress is to ever be made. For the truth is rarely pleasant to behold, easy to shy, then to accept the errors of one’s ways. Easier to find a scapegoat, some nefarious will to cast blame on like some sort of temperamental child.
 
No one made me join the military; no one forced my hand. It was by my own volition, compelled to prove my worth as a man to my father. Through blood, steel, sweat, and tears I would carry our family banner with misplaced pride. It wasn’t till I first gutted a man, and saw what we are truly made of did I understand the folly of this course. I still remember the smell of burning flesh, hair, and the sound of lamentation as we set our enemies' lands ablaze. The trauma of war has two outcomes, it either breaks a man's psyche like a glass bottle into a thousand pieces. That no matter how much you try to glue the pieces back together, they will never be perfect again. Or breaks the man into a jagged weapon, while never hole he can learn to use what he has earned through the tribulations of the war machine to further himself.
 
I was the latter, returning home after my first campaign a different man. Seeing my younger sister training, the sight of which caused my heart to sink with anguish. Matsumota seemed destined to make the same error. Staring into my father's eyes, I finally understood what he meant all those years ago, I have proved my mettle refined like the ore to forge a blade. Yet like a smith, I never once asked myself what it was I would be sacrificing to achieve the end result. I was no longer a boy, no longer a young man in my father and mother’s eyes. But another fool forged in the fires of conflict inheriting the sins of my father.
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2 “The dark side of the moon.”
 
Years passed, two campaigns later as I relaxed within my empire of dirt. I was peering out across the vast expanse of the desert, walking along the edge of the gaped plunge that is the obsidian canyon wearing my metaphorical crown of thorns fit for a liar. The pink sun was rising, it’s soft, inviting glow reaching just beyond the horizon's edge. Most may have heard the orchestra of the birds, succumbing to the dreadful illusion of peace. Yet I heard the rhythmic drums of wars, the distant hoarse singing of steel friction against steel. Dark rumors were reaching my ears days in advance, the local tribes of beastkin uniting, refusing to bend the knee to the changing laws of the land. A hungry, ravenous empire was gorging itself with anything unfortunate to be in its path. Tightening its grip as slowly, I watched our freedoms and future erode away from the tides of “progress.”
 
I felt a kinship with those “less civilized” folk my empire sought to subjugate. Their free will and untethered nature as a culturally enriched nomadic group fascinated me. So one could imagine the depression setting in when the letter arrived, informing me that the crown demanded my blade once more. Gathering my things, I bid my sister farewell. I gave her a soft kiss on the forehead, ruffling that pinkish hair as the bannermen gathered outside of my estate's gate. I remember her tears, yet despite the cherry blossoms being in full bloom that time of year, nothing was truly beautiful that day. Feeling the insatiable need to be strong, serving as her anchor, I would callously march off to war once more. Though deep down inside, I wept, not for my life nor the possibility of death's unforgiving grip. But for the pain war had wrought on our relationship, my lifestyle wounding all those I shared bonds with. Like a fine woven tapestry, we were all interconnected; what disturbs one strand would loosen them all.
 
Like lambs to the slaughter, our superior organization, resources, wealth, technology, and training proved too much for the uprising. Riding on armored scarabs back, with blade drawn, I would barrel my forces beyond their line. The war machine was stampeding rapidly, carving a deep wound that even the bravest of their generals couldn't cauterize in time. It seemed this would be a quick campaign; unlike my peers, I took little enjoyment in torturing and prolonging this conflict. I wanted to end it swiftly, mercilessly, and with an ounce of humanity still left intact. The taste of war bitter, stomach-churning like rotted meat to the palate. The sea of white dunes painted in crimson, littered in corpses to feed the scavengers who waited on the sidelines. Longing for us to depart so that they may enjoy the bounty of our slaughter. 
 
Gnoll, Lizardkin, Wulfgar, Goatkin, Giant, Orc, and Ogre alike fell to our blades. The newly formed caster rifles proved a pivotal piece of tech. Even then, staring at the bronze barrel, I could sense what was to inevitably come given enough time. Yet no respite would my weary soul taste, the quick resolution I painted for like fawn does water from the oasis would be denied. My queen wanted to set a new standard, make an example of these foolish primitives who dared to stand valiantly against the winds of change. Riding on beetles back, we traversed the Ashlandian mountains, coming across what my commanding officer mentioned was an encampment. Yet using our spyglass even I could see it was a village filled with women, children, elderly the wounded, and noncombatants. I implored my captain to stand down, pleading that these souls were innocent.
 
As if that would absolve me of guilt, for ultimately, when my words fell on deafening ears, and the order was given, I paused momentarily. Before joining the assault, cutting down a woman trying to flee the onslaught of death. Till this day I hear their screams, I see their corpses and those I considered brothers descended on the innocents like a pack of wolves. They were leaping for the jugular with but glee and unbridled restraint.  I did nothing; even as I froze, all I could do was watch in horror, with judgemental eyes cast not inward but on the powers that be. My righteous indignation focused on the wrong target, like a fool seeking another to pin it all on. When the dust settled, the ash caking on the corpses those remaining weeks would bring the end of the conflict. Those once free, those spirits I admired from afar broken, forced to carry the yoke of others. I received many medals that day, shook many hands, and was praised for a job all done. 
 
All the glory, joyous celebration of the Emerald City, and new hunks of metal deafened by those cries. I was turning to booze to silence the screams, unable to face the sins. Instead of finding it easier to drown them out with poison so I could get a few hours rest every night. I returned home not like the prodigal son, the envy of the town, and my family. But as a broken, distraught and destructive man. Peering up at the moon, I felt a kinship with the symbol of my birth year. Not for it’s the luminous glow that penetrated the night and veil of darkness. Rather the craters were darting its surface like the wounds of my soul, and the side forever touched by darkness like my battered heart,
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3 “Redemption.”
 
The years rolled by, day in and day out the same routine. Drink myself awake, neglect those around me, drink myself to sleep. I was periodically being called on by my fair queen to squash another rebellion and uprising, birthed within the White Sands borders, as well as beyond. Many more ingenious tribes slaughtered by my hand, their cultures extinguished by the gears of the machine that was the empire’s wars. It seemed for a while that this was the only place left for me in the world, my own dark corner. A job that I was qualified and suited to do. Yet no matter the coin, no matter the fight, no matter the booze. The guilt only grew, the burden becoming heavier with each day as the gaping wound in my heart was left to fester. The infection was running deep, tainting every facet of my life. Even my sister found herself feeding on the negative Chi emulating from her older sibling.
 
Returning home one day, from a foreign concept, I would see the plumes of darkness barreling to the heavens. The house of my fathers, the life I knew ablaze. As the empire had turned its guns and swords toward that little, I still had left to cling to. The soldiers accompanied me, drawing their blades, as I swiftly usurped their ghost from corporeal shells. I was leaving behind the eviscerated husk of my enemies as a testament of the wrath and anguish growing within. Was this the old one’s punishing me for past transgression? No, the so-called higher beings didn’t care about mortals and their existence. If they did, they would have intervened centuries ago to stem the infection our darker nature can bring if left unchecked. There was no grand plan, no design, no purpose behind the slaughter of my people. Ironic, for the first time, I no longer had to guess what my own victims felt like as I turned their own world into pillars of salt. I could experience it, laughing as I drifted down the narrow road, certain death would find me too.
 
Fleeing the desert, I found myself within the fungi forest, wandering the maze of giant mushrooms as the sun would settle from sight. The lesser celestial bodies were twinkling in the sky as a cold autumn eve greeted my flesh. Dropping to my knees, I would place the tip of the blade against my abdomen, convinced ending it all was the only way to find peace. Not because I truly wanted to die, but because I wanted to be released from the cries of the damned who haunted my every step. The lack of booze prevents the sound of silence, let alone a muffle from greeting vexed mind. Yet before the tip could plunge itself into my abdominal cavity, the sound of something crying for help reached my ears. Having nothing to live for, I figured why not die in battle instead. At the time, it seemed poetic, perishing as I lived. But the source was not some fair maiden or a lost merchant on the road being harassed by some highwaymen. But a moth, as large as an eagle emitting a soft glow trapped by a carnivorous shroom. Sorrow filled my heart as I cut the creature free; the intelligent insect showering me with needless unmerited praise. The pest was refusing to just float away, instead of following me as I prepared to once more end my bleak existence.
 
It’s radiant warmth, otherworldly glow, and soothing alien voice placating my demons long enough to speak wisdom. The will of the moon, an ancient spirit of folklore and legend informing me that redemption is never out of grasp. And that if I followed her to her people, they would be able to assist me at a shot at finding acceptance with my devils. Feeling I had nothing to lose, we would head out across the forest before exiting the land I knew as home. Traveling through many foreign sights until stumbling across a pyramid-like structure, tucked deep within a thick, unforgiving jungle. Here moth humanoids greeted me, thanking me for saving and bringing one of their own homes. For many years I would practice my art, fusing it with their own unique style of blade dancing, learning the value of equilibrium between the light and the dark. Edification brings with it a sense of belonging, wholeness, and, most importantly, peace. I dedicated my life to their monk-like ways, studying their ancient tomes and basking in that honorable society. 
 
From the moment they wake, till they sleep. Each member worked diligently in the craft to further their own from the greatest aristocrat to the lowliest of stations. I have never seen such commendable discipline. Oneness with the universe and their place in it. While I couldn’t undo the damage wrought by my bloodstained hands, I could use the darkness and the light to bring about a better world. Though what constituted a better world, even their Wisemen and medicine women refused to illuminate upon. They were claiming that every soul, no matter how ill, brings forth good Chi to the world. And no matter how holy, brings forth corrupt Chi. That life wasn’t a matter of good or evil, dark versus light. Rather the balance of the dream, and one’s own position within the cosmic order. 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-Epilogue-
 
In a dream, I saw it, dragons returning, an undead horde, my motherland at war, and my dear sister suffering. I thought she was dead, foolishly my presumption leading to abandonment. Sweet, innocent Matsumoto now walking the same vile path I did, her own light being encapsulated by darkness. Bidding my friends farewell, I left, traversing the world before me trying to head home. Maria followed me, the moth I had saved earlier. As she said, we were bound, our souls linked ever since I prevented her digestion. No matter my protest, her will, and stubbornness never waned. Begrudgingly I would accept her request, though secretly I enjoyed her company. I pray that whoever may find this will learn from my mistakes, learn that good and evil are merely constructs we create to classify the world. I could have filled these parchments with stories of success, grand ambitions, and my greatest feat. But I, Aquaria Devante, saw fit not to, for we can learn the most from our stumbling. The fall never matters rather how we get up and what we do once we avert our destructive tendencies.