Crest
That image continued to flash before his eyes as he screamed, that face, that posture, those brilliant lights. Again and again the appeared in front of his eyes, and each time they appeared a question was ask.
‘What will you be?’
Each time the question was asked, each time the images assaulted him, his rage grew. His body shook from the pain and fury. But in his rage, within this momentary insanity he was force into, something became clear to him.
The Truth.
It was what people called the Saint’s power, it is what, when he heard that voice for the first time, declared as what will end him. Truth, Truth, Truth.
And in that moment something changed among the dark fog, it grew denser, but it was no longer wild, it collected upon his form, on his upper back, and it became nothing but pure blackness. So solid, so dark, it could not even be called a ‘smoke’ anymore, but rather it was as dark as the darkness of space.
And as he roared it changed even more, the blackness elongated and stretched. Two ‘ribbons’ formed around his arms, hovering around them within the air, as two more appeared and hung in mid-air. Their movements were unpredictable, un-recognizable, it was if they jolted around like lightning, but at the same time flowed like a stream, smooth yet blocky. So alien, so impossible, that if anyone even tried to truly describe these ‘ribbons’ they would fail completely.
This was what he was.
He was one who Rejects Truth.
And so Crest sat there on his knees, panting as sweet dripped from his face, the ribbon calmly floating in midair around him, jolting and flowing. The rejection that broke free defined and controlled.
