A torrent of rain fell from the broken clouds above, screaming into the night as each drop sizzled against his raging skin. He knelt, pleading into the rapidly warming mud caking his body and clothes for some kind of mercy, but each cell in him continued to burst into flickering wisps of flames.
The pain was maddening, his joints seizing and flexing under the strain like he was a marionette strung tight to a demonic marionettist. Spittle foamed out of his mouth and waves upon waves of colors like churning cinder washed across his vision.
Death had been far more peaceful than this furious rebirth.
His robes, spun from the finest material, burned like wicks, surrounding him in a glowing pulsing light as the individual flames bursting from his skin began to merge and grow together. The air surrounding him was suffocating--billows of colored smoke rising up, tangling themselves with the rain drops that continued to fall intensely--and he struggled to breath.
He knew, deep in the recesses of his mind where thoughts drifted through the fog of insanity consuming him, that he needed to stop resisting--that he must let go of his fears and last lingering earthly tethers and finally set himself free--giving himself wholly to the process.
Because one did not become a po-ni-ke on their own.
It is a gift, blessed only to those with the most worthy nature.
He had always assumed such a fiery creature full of grace had to be of pure descent.
How wrong it seems he had been.
For he was not a man who had lived and died a noble life. He had splendor and wealth, but he had cut a warpath across the known lands to acquire it. Blood had flowed much like the searing rain dancing around him now between his fingers with unheard cries of mercy.
No, he had not been a good man.
He wondered then, as his failing body collapsed and he was forced to fall to his side and roll on his back--his face cast up towards the spilling heavens--if the Fire and Smoke burning from his body were the sins he had committed and this torture was an act of purification.
Shadowy tree-lines swayed into his hazy vision as the rolling clouds above rumbled violently enough that he felt the sinking earth beneath him tremble.
Not a single soul joined him in the deep valley he rested in. Not another voice could be heard, or another heart beat could be felt.
But as he lay gasping for air, his body burning, his muscles quaking, and his mind dissolving away, he felt himself expand out, like a wildfire, and let go of the last of his fears.
It was then, as a massive explosion burst from his core outwards, that he felt one with everything around him--and he knew soon, after a bit of rest, it would be time for the phoenix he now was, to take flight.
The pain was maddening, his joints seizing and flexing under the strain like he was a marionette strung tight to a demonic marionettist. Spittle foamed out of his mouth and waves upon waves of colors like churning cinder washed across his vision.
Death had been far more peaceful than this furious rebirth.
His robes, spun from the finest material, burned like wicks, surrounding him in a glowing pulsing light as the individual flames bursting from his skin began to merge and grow together. The air surrounding him was suffocating--billows of colored smoke rising up, tangling themselves with the rain drops that continued to fall intensely--and he struggled to breath.
He knew, deep in the recesses of his mind where thoughts drifted through the fog of insanity consuming him, that he needed to stop resisting--that he must let go of his fears and last lingering earthly tethers and finally set himself free--giving himself wholly to the process.
Because one did not become a po-ni-ke on their own.
It is a gift, blessed only to those with the most worthy nature.
He had always assumed such a fiery creature full of grace had to be of pure descent.
How wrong it seems he had been.
For he was not a man who had lived and died a noble life. He had splendor and wealth, but he had cut a warpath across the known lands to acquire it. Blood had flowed much like the searing rain dancing around him now between his fingers with unheard cries of mercy.
No, he had not been a good man.
He wondered then, as his failing body collapsed and he was forced to fall to his side and roll on his back--his face cast up towards the spilling heavens--if the Fire and Smoke burning from his body were the sins he had committed and this torture was an act of purification.
Shadowy tree-lines swayed into his hazy vision as the rolling clouds above rumbled violently enough that he felt the sinking earth beneath him tremble.
Not a single soul joined him in the deep valley he rested in. Not another voice could be heard, or another heart beat could be felt.
But as he lay gasping for air, his body burning, his muscles quaking, and his mind dissolving away, he felt himself expand out, like a wildfire, and let go of the last of his fears.
It was then, as a massive explosion burst from his core outwards, that he felt one with everything around him--and he knew soon, after a bit of rest, it would be time for the phoenix he now was, to take flight.
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