Lost Herald
![[Image: 22Jfc6l.png]](https://i.imgur.com/22Jfc6l.png)
Quote:A child of Nadine, yet a creation of magic. She dwelled among the discordant elves who saw her more as a strain than family. Among the Evergrove forests she tried her best to play by the rules while shirking awful traditions. She always felt and knew something was wrong. But time moved on, and so did she. Only in her teens did she at last discover the truth.
She had been sent here from elsewhere, found wanting and exiled unto an unwanting world. A purposeful design to embellish her strength, a future for her had already been planned. A puppet of the G0Ds, a mouthpiece of those too meek to use their own voice. Her mother so magical, had very little enchanting about her. A cold cagey individual with a social cadence resembling a barbed wire post with all the sheathing stripped off.
She would fight to save Nadine, even if it was always futile. She owed this not to her mother, not to the wood elves, but herself. To prove she could do things for her own reasons, not just because it was what she was told.
This belief in herself and conviction for her own cause is what grew a naive fledgling into the powerhouse she is today. Once fearful for her life, she would now give it a thousand times over for what she believes in.
The truth. Ever has she sought to wire it out from the pursed lips of the deceiver. Her life so far had been a lie, and so she would endure deception no more. The Sylph of the Sun would enlighten many on the truths hiding in darkness. With blinding rays and deathly gaze she embarked on a crusade of soothsaying and dispelling deceit.
The Stars above watched fearfully as she found out far more than was allowed. Breaking the rules, crushing tradition underfoot. Deceit was a dying construct, and the stars knew their time in the light of its luster grew ever dim. They sought retribution, but just as they thought to strike, a scourge had emerged.
No Star Angel, but at such a point it didn't matter, what she had become alongside her conviction... was enough. Stars free from the consequence of their conniving after billions upon billions of lifetimes had been brought to kneel. She had become greater than them. Now blocking their way stood an icon of truth so potent they could only dance in awe and respect. The Serazen is born, and from her waking did the stellar bodies who hoped to remove her become her baubles. The light of their lecherous larrikin was dead, the fires snuffed out by perfect inquisition.
R E A L . E Y E S
R E A L I Z E
A L L . T H E
R E A L . L I E S .
Her sight had become sharp, cutting in twain fabrications like a heated knife gliding through butter. A slaughter of unmaking to the gaslight conductors who would very much like to keep their sordid secrets. Deceit deemed indecent, effort in lies now seen as sin in guise.
Forbidden had become crafting a web of lies. The effort involved to provide less than nothing, the mastery over manipulation measured by the gaunt fingers of a sinister hand; all erased. The Sylph knew they were predisposed towards her honesty, but it didn't matter... She was too powerful to care. None of these peddlers of punishable predilection could pose any threat to her now. They bowed, or they would be cowed.
"Craft your web, play the spider. Just like the once secretive stars who now dance at my beck and call, I'll crush insects who try to skirt the line of fraud. Your dance of denial is done, the stage is mine now-- and I'll swat those who seek to steal it for immoral illusion."
A declaration rung out so far as the universe's edge. Malfeasance had lost the need for its practitioners aplenty. Belphegor looked upon this bold declaration and she wept, not in sorrow, but in joy. Like that, Fyori had inspired another power to her side, the Sin of Sloth who had longed for the abolishment of such needless, pointless crafts, the manipulator's mainstay-- was being singlehandedly unwritten by a single girl.
No better a candidate to house the Deadly Sin of Sloth, than one who makes pointless work into work no longer with a point. Manipulation mangled. Malfeasance reduced to puffery. All that remains...
Is truth without tautology.
A Lost Herald had found her own harbinger. Lacking respect for hell's lies, she obliterated the stage of fraud, conman's coinpurses emptied. The final bow given, the dealers of delusion denied, prankster's peddlers predated.
The father of fraud was dead, the fire of his infidelity flickering down to the wick. She had created hell, in hell, for hell. And now there was no way to unmake it.