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By Benjami
08/29/2025 - 10:42:05

Type: Captain
Rating: 7.5 (Good)
Tags: gaprop

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Description

[I sometimes do little writing exercises when I get half-baked ideas in case they might go anywhere. This one didn?t, but since I haven?t shared anything in a while, here?s this anyway:]

Long ago, in a war now unspoken of, died a god. It was a god of pretense, mimicry, mocking and lampooning. The followers of the Ire-Maker would once build shrines of criticism of other gods, monuments that would serve as great pasquinades in the arena of divines. All would be torn down in time. All but one.

Not as long ago, a colony of surisins fell under the inquisition of the children of war, the terrible eye of the war-god gazing upon the ruins-to-be. A young surisin paladin saw her comrades slain in the overwhelming onslaught, and fled to the ancient catacombs on top of which the colony was built. As she ran she heard the battle rage on topside, but she dared not look back.

With a crumble and a crash, she fell into an old forgotten chamber. A hall upon the floor of which none had stepped a foot on for eons since. In the center lay a strange statue, its half-broken face wearing an expression of strange mockery.

For days, the storm of guns and fire raged topside, echoing down the ruins of this forgotten place. The paladin grew hungry, weary, angry. Angry at the nerve of the invaders. What gave them the right to stroll right in and kill her people? Her comrades? Where?s the decency, the dignity in such an act? And the universe is just going to let this happen, no reprimand or criticism of any kind towards the outrageous aggression? Such a travesty was deserving of punishment, of mockery! Not passive compliance.

The paladin did not truly understand the thoughts seeping into her mind, but she knew her fury to be true. And as her anger brewed in this hall of forgotten indignation, she stared at the remnants of the ridiculous visage that claimed the room for its audience. That it was making a mockery was clear, but whether its target was the paladin or her enemies, was not.

She would not stand it any longer. She picked up a rock, climbed up the statue until she stood above its head, and smashed its damnable pretense of an expression into pieces, screaming all the while, her mandibles opening as wide as they could and even then more.

The dust and shrapnel from the breaking stones pierced her eye as the statue shattered. Along it, pillars holding up the chamber crumbled down, and the entire chamber collapsed. Once again silence reigned, though echoes of contempt lingered.

From the remains of what had once been a shrine of travesty and ridicule, rose a broken woman. She climbed out of the catacombs all the way up to the surface, to witness the city she had sworn to protect laid to ruins, the invaders hunting down the hiding survivors. The stars in the night-sky were obscured by the plumes of ash and smoke.

The woman, whose name had once been something other but now knew herself as Parodia, rose on top of the rubble and announced her presence to the subjects of her disdain.

This farce had to end, and the offenders had to be made aware of the ludicrosity of their actions. They fancied themselves children of war, thought it a justification and reason for what they were, what they did.

Parodia grasped the Might, instilled upon it the contempt and scorn from deep within her essence, and let loose the divine disparagement.

The children of war turned against each other, firing upon their brothers in a gruesome satire of what they once revelled in. At the center of the gruesome cacophony of irony, Parodia stood and stared at the eye of war. In response it blinked, and then was no more.

She now understood what she was.

She was the Delegator of Derision, the last remnant of what once understood the absurdity of the universe and of those who deemed themselves its divine masters. But the original Ire-Maker was no more, and so the grand burlesque show went on.

Now it was up to Parodia to tear down the ridiculous facade.