Sgrios Mass: Society of Beasts
There was once a valiant warrior; the pride of his village. By the strength of his arm and the steel of his courage the town was saved from many a horrid fate. Each time he was able to stave off disaster, his ego would swell. The elders brought him gifts of gold, the priests brought him powerful amulets and rings, the maidens gave of their bodies what a man values more than gold and power. The village leaned heavily on this boy, and, while he was happy to lend his particular talents to the preservation of his village, each wave of terror corrupted his kind heart bit by bit. Each gold coin he earned in the employ of the elders set a monetary expectation; he began visiting the church after his exploits and asking for his reward. When the young women soured on his demeanor, he began to take by force what they would not give. Appreciation turned to ask; ask turned to demand and demand gave way to force. Within years the village savior had become the evil he had sworn to protect against.
He, who was once a hero, settled into life as a robber baron. He took the house he coveted, filled it with his ill-gotten gains and dragged many an unwilling woman back to his lair to have his way with her. But there must always be a hero, and it wasn’t long before one of his own seed came to age; yet in his chest beat the pure heart of his father. When his strength and skill were discovered, he was secreted away to live with the woodsman, where he trained daily the art of the axe and honed his great strength against the wicked beings of the wood. He grew up as stout and as pure as an oak. All the while his father laid waste to the village he once put his life at risk to defend. Far and wide his reputation spread, ironically, keeping the dangers at bay lest they fall victim to his cruelty. On the sixteenth year of tyranny, the village elders visited the woodsman to view the fruits of his labor. The boy was a spitting image of his father, back before he was twisted into the sinister beast he had become. They deemed he was ready to confront his destiny.
The boy came into town under the cover of night, obscured from sight by a black shawl. He set himself in the bushes and waited for dawn, thinking to ambush his father when he embarked to collect his tribute from the peddlers and farmers. With the rising sun, the town came to life. Peasant farmers worked through the dew to feed their livestock and thresh their wheat, for winter was nearing and it was known that the fallen hero would come to collect his provisions soon. And it was true, for this was the fateful morning he meant to collect. His wagon was tethered to his stout drafthorse and, when the sun had warmed the day, he set out wearing his finest leathers with a sword of ornate craftsmanship bouncing against his hip. As the tyrant neared the gate, the boy leapt upon him with his axe, clipping off his hand like so much kindling; for it was known that upon his left hand he wore rings with the blessing of the gods and was thus strengthened by their magics.
The battle, in reality, was short, though the implications echo even still today in certain corners of the great wood. Having so lost his hand, and, having been set upon in a great ambush, and having long since lost his edge in the great complacency of privilege, the boy would have won by virtue of time, but he took great care in his slaughter, hacking the fallen hero to pieces before he could unsheathe his shortsword from its jeweled scabbard. Those whom had witnessed the encounter, though unnerved by the bloodshed, celebrated and before the sun had taken its place above the village all knew that their oppressor had been deposed and great cheers were heard well into the evening during the celebration.
Thus the boy was brought in to the village where he served to keep the evil forces at bay. Without the powerful name of the father, bandits and beasts once more made the settlement a target and, with his axe, the young man made short work of those who would defile his home. Having seen what greed could do to a man, the village elders agreed that the boy should be sheltered from corruption; that his reward was the service unto itself, and that he should live naught but a humble life. Season after season the boy protected the village from the dangers of the wild, and all the while he saw the prosperity his duty brought. Merchants walked the roads without fear, their purses jingling loudly as they passed. Farmers feasted every night on the abundance of their crop, which they enjoyed without being taxed by some knave. Priests flaunted their jeweled fingers, heavy with the weight of cut gems and gold. As time passed the boy looked on at the townsfolk with a covetous heart; for it was on his shoulders that these people sat, and yet he slept on a bed of straw and whimpered in the cold like an unwanted dog.
Fate is a fickle mistress, though, and the day came that a small group of savage bandits sought to raid the settlement, which had a reputation across the great wood for enjoying all the wealth of Fiosachd himself. These raiders thought not just to sack the settlement, but to claim the bountiful fields as their own, and dwell in those homes that were erected by the wealth of the prosperous. The boy, who had grown into a bitter young man, met them outside the village as he did all threats and easily cut them down with his axe as he was taught to do by the woodsman. Because they had designs to resettle the village, the bandits had carts of belongings in tow and the villagers all scurried to the outskirts to scavenge what meager possessions the bandits had.
In this moment the man looked around at those to whom he was meant to protect and saw only petty thieves. Nowhere in his heart was there a chamber of compassion, for none had shown any to him. He saw not the miller, he saw not seamstress, he saw not the farmers son - rather he saw the man who showed him the heel of his boot when he begged for bread, he saw the spiteful woman draped in fine silk when he wore an old roughspun tunic, he saw a young man who, when gathered with friends at the tavern, sung disparaging songs about the boy in a loud drunken chorus. The lines between friend and foe had been blurred beyond recognition and, knowing only one way in life, he set upon purging the village of evildoers. By the time the moon walked the night sky, none were left alive save for the boy himself.
We live in a world of beasts, and they are not all sequestered in the wilds. There is nary a more dangerous monster in this land than man himself. We are all born into this world against our will and are forced to respond to the circumstances we encounter. I am sympathetic to the beasts who walk among us, for it is society which made them; whether overfed on societies riches or starved of the simple comforts. Who is to say that either the father or son were evil in their actions, and who could excuse the villagers for their treatment of these vulnerable souls? We are not mongrels, yet often we treat each other like the scum beneath our feet. We are monsters creating monsters -- this is called civilization.
He, who was once a hero, settled into life as a robber baron. He took the house he coveted, filled it with his ill-gotten gains and dragged many an unwilling woman back to his lair to have his way with her. But there must always be a hero, and it wasn’t long before one of his own seed came to age; yet in his chest beat the pure heart of his father. When his strength and skill were discovered, he was secreted away to live with the woodsman, where he trained daily the art of the axe and honed his great strength against the wicked beings of the wood. He grew up as stout and as pure as an oak. All the while his father laid waste to the village he once put his life at risk to defend. Far and wide his reputation spread, ironically, keeping the dangers at bay lest they fall victim to his cruelty. On the sixteenth year of tyranny, the village elders visited the woodsman to view the fruits of his labor. The boy was a spitting image of his father, back before he was twisted into the sinister beast he had become. They deemed he was ready to confront his destiny.
The boy came into town under the cover of night, obscured from sight by a black shawl. He set himself in the bushes and waited for dawn, thinking to ambush his father when he embarked to collect his tribute from the peddlers and farmers. With the rising sun, the town came to life. Peasant farmers worked through the dew to feed their livestock and thresh their wheat, for winter was nearing and it was known that the fallen hero would come to collect his provisions soon. And it was true, for this was the fateful morning he meant to collect. His wagon was tethered to his stout drafthorse and, when the sun had warmed the day, he set out wearing his finest leathers with a sword of ornate craftsmanship bouncing against his hip. As the tyrant neared the gate, the boy leapt upon him with his axe, clipping off his hand like so much kindling; for it was known that upon his left hand he wore rings with the blessing of the gods and was thus strengthened by their magics.
The battle, in reality, was short, though the implications echo even still today in certain corners of the great wood. Having so lost his hand, and, having been set upon in a great ambush, and having long since lost his edge in the great complacency of privilege, the boy would have won by virtue of time, but he took great care in his slaughter, hacking the fallen hero to pieces before he could unsheathe his shortsword from its jeweled scabbard. Those whom had witnessed the encounter, though unnerved by the bloodshed, celebrated and before the sun had taken its place above the village all knew that their oppressor had been deposed and great cheers were heard well into the evening during the celebration.
Thus the boy was brought in to the village where he served to keep the evil forces at bay. Without the powerful name of the father, bandits and beasts once more made the settlement a target and, with his axe, the young man made short work of those who would defile his home. Having seen what greed could do to a man, the village elders agreed that the boy should be sheltered from corruption; that his reward was the service unto itself, and that he should live naught but a humble life. Season after season the boy protected the village from the dangers of the wild, and all the while he saw the prosperity his duty brought. Merchants walked the roads without fear, their purses jingling loudly as they passed. Farmers feasted every night on the abundance of their crop, which they enjoyed without being taxed by some knave. Priests flaunted their jeweled fingers, heavy with the weight of cut gems and gold. As time passed the boy looked on at the townsfolk with a covetous heart; for it was on his shoulders that these people sat, and yet he slept on a bed of straw and whimpered in the cold like an unwanted dog.
Fate is a fickle mistress, though, and the day came that a small group of savage bandits sought to raid the settlement, which had a reputation across the great wood for enjoying all the wealth of Fiosachd himself. These raiders thought not just to sack the settlement, but to claim the bountiful fields as their own, and dwell in those homes that were erected by the wealth of the prosperous. The boy, who had grown into a bitter young man, met them outside the village as he did all threats and easily cut them down with his axe as he was taught to do by the woodsman. Because they had designs to resettle the village, the bandits had carts of belongings in tow and the villagers all scurried to the outskirts to scavenge what meager possessions the bandits had.
In this moment the man looked around at those to whom he was meant to protect and saw only petty thieves. Nowhere in his heart was there a chamber of compassion, for none had shown any to him. He saw not the miller, he saw not seamstress, he saw not the farmers son - rather he saw the man who showed him the heel of his boot when he begged for bread, he saw the spiteful woman draped in fine silk when he wore an old roughspun tunic, he saw a young man who, when gathered with friends at the tavern, sung disparaging songs about the boy in a loud drunken chorus. The lines between friend and foe had been blurred beyond recognition and, knowing only one way in life, he set upon purging the village of evildoers. By the time the moon walked the night sky, none were left alive save for the boy himself.
We live in a world of beasts, and they are not all sequestered in the wilds. There is nary a more dangerous monster in this land than man himself. We are all born into this world against our will and are forced to respond to the circumstances we encounter. I am sympathetic to the beasts who walk among us, for it is society which made them; whether overfed on societies riches or starved of the simple comforts. Who is to say that either the father or son were evil in their actions, and who could excuse the villagers for their treatment of these vulnerable souls? We are not mongrels, yet often we treat each other like the scum beneath our feet. We are monsters creating monsters -- this is called civilization.
Stand with me in the presence of what we have decided is an abomination and realize that Sgrios is a mirror to society. Find yourself in the shape of His darkness and see how you, yourself, shape the amorphous shadows of mankind with your behavior and be mindful of these things. When we break someone, it is not uncommon for them to break you in return. Empty your mind and let this lesson live with you this next double-moon and see if it does not influence your actions.
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