A Cracked Frame - Printable Version

A Cracked Frame - Printable Version

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A Cracked Frame - ShiroKirishiki - 05-11-2025

My claws are shaking, for once. Usually, they itch.

Remaking someone usually quiets them, placates them for a time.

They never really shake, though. At least, not often.

They haven’t shaken this much since I confronted my sister,

or avenged my brother.

But they’re shaking again. Trembling almost.

Because he bled beautifully.

I fought him wearing Vult, wearing The Veil... With Veinrend.

I was wrapped in Her warmth as I danced with him—when I remade him, just a little bit.

Even when he yelled at me, even when he said I disgraced martial arts,

I didn’t shake with doubt like I thought I would—it was restraint.

Stopping from killing, instead just altering the shape just enough to make a mark. To send a message.

I made sure he could stand, that he would live.

I don’t know if it’s weakness, or intention.
I’ve never been able to tell.
Even as the ink sang—even as Vein and the Veil sang—I was wondering that…
wondering if what I was doing wasn’t right.

I’d never had such wonderful clay to work with.
His fury, the pain of betrayal, the hope that I would wake up if he screamed loudly enough…
It was like a symphony of truth I hadn’t seen in a long time.
Wasting such potential is a tragedy, so I made sure to take my time.
I want to find something like that again. I have to.

I will have more in the future.

The world knows the truth of Viritas now.

The song of ruin was sung, the land now blanketed in ashes.

Another song comes, the beating drums of war.

As it should be. As it was always going to be.

Meranthe, the land of hypocrites, now sings the song of our ruin.

It’s dissonant, a foul and disgusting thing.

False certainty, parroting the same verse over and over and over again.

It’s disappointing, really, but I must be grateful to them.

Even if they know not of what our purpose is, our truth,

they still will bring me test subjects to experiment with
and canvases to paint upon.

How strange, that one can offer gifts without even knowing it.

So be it.

I’ll carve their flesh into truth, and speak when silence is no longer is needed.

What I create will be so beautiful that even this world’s misguided hatred cannot unmake it.

If that makes me a monster, then so be it. I’ve long since known that.

Let them come with flames.

Let them come with judgement.

Let them come…and let them see.

The next act is long overdue.

And I cannot wait.

RE: A Cracked Frame - ShiroKirishiki - 05-18-2025

I have no words. They have failed me.

When I ascended those steps to a familiar field, the one where I made a fox bleed, my fate was sealed.
She did not wish to understand me. She wished to erase me, to remove me from the canvas.

She didn’t do it out of hatred. She didn’t do it out of anger.

She did it in mourning. She did it in remembrance.

She did it to bury the little girl that sniffed around the forests looking for trouble.

She did it to bury the child she failed to raise.

She did it to grieve.

"Yaeka is dead. Don’t use her voice anymore."

Oh, Mydaea… Is this Your will as well?

To teach me something so beautiful, to make the pain sing better than any voice could? To carve it into my soul, and show me the truth that I had hidden from all along?

I’ve been called a monster. They’ve called us witches. Enemies.

But she—the one that looked at my twisted eyes and smiled—called me dead.

'But I'm alive...right?'

And maybe, just maybe, she was right.

I left part of myself in that ruined factory,

Next to the corpse of the half-angel that I laid low.

A piece of my soul, a piece of my past.

The part of me that kept it all from unravelling.

The part of me that Her Grace replaced.

Then….

Why do I still grieve?

Why do I still mourn?

Why does this pain still echo in every brushstroke I make?

Why do I feel so hollow?

'Does the answer really matter?'

If I am dead… Then I will haunt.

The silence I was given will be my final composition.

I won’t vanish.

I will echo.

Oh, Mydaea… Hear my prayer.

Let me disappear with grace.

Let whatever remains be worthy of witnessing.

Let the silence I carry mean more than the voice I lost.

Give this failure form. Make it become poetry.

If I cannot be heard, then let me be seen.

Felt instead of forgotten.

One day… I will find a way to speak again.

Not with words… but with silence that will leave the world breathless.

Oh, Mydaea…

I pray You will smile when You see it.

RE: A Cracked Frame - ShiroKirishiki - 05-29-2025

Shadows cast by candlelight stir.

Whispers adorn the air where silence once deafened,

the world within and without began to blur.

A black fox, accursed and maddened,

mutters prayers and etches her truth onto page

so that it might endure.

They bled correctly, but for the wrong purpose.
It nearly breaks my heart to see them come so close, only to miss the truth entirely.
I can feel it; Meranthe has the potential to be great.
They are like uncut marble, but they fear the chisel.
They think rigidity begets righteousness.

The girl, Sophie was her name, said something so wise for a girl her age:

‘The only truth in the world is change.’

For one living within Meranthe’s blinded masses, there is a glimmer of something there.
A potential for true meaning.

Death. Life.

Light. Dark.

Everything in between.

There are many constants, but there is only one truth:
Beauty.

It transcends it all, admired and considered ‘right’ no matter what it does.
Even those that cry out against it cannot help but give pause if they only look at it for what it is.

Yet, I am painted the villain for making them beautiful.

They cannot see past the blood when I cut away the rot.

That ignorance, that blindness, will be the death of them.

Even the light of dawn stings the eye if looked at directly.

Why can’t they understand? Surely they do.

They who stand against titans and monsters, who bleed so wonderfully for their perceived truths, surely understand that pain comes before perfection.

…right?

Perhaps one, at least, would understand.
The girl that stood against Aisenliche, who attacked me, despite the fact she knew it was futile.
Even if she is misguided, even if she is so close to understanding yet deaf to the faintest whispers…There is potential.

So I gave Alma a mark that whispers.
It will follow her like her own shadow.

I pray it opens her eyes.

I pray it opens her ears.

I pray it lets Her see.

The ground was stained in their truth.
I bled with them that night.
It mixed and painted the canvas perfectly.
Three flowers borne of their dances.
Each sung the same song, but in different tunes.
When they were all laid out before me, dancing in firelight, I could help but to stop and admire it.

The symphony of agony they created was

Divine.

RE: A Cracked Frame - ShiroKirishiki - 06-10-2025

The blackened skies wept—no, they bled.

The clouds peeled away during an accursed rite.

The rain stained crimson covered the dead.

Until, at last...we saw Her light.

The world, to me, is black and white.
Shades of grey, at times, but otherwise boring and dull.
The only color I can see, is red.

It’s why I pick up every Sinka I see.

It’s why I stare at each cut I make.

It’s why Veinrend and the Veil are so beautiful.

For the first time, I saw the sky. I saw rain.

I saw the city that I had helped nurture and curate, for the first time.

The people, the buildings, the streets…

I could finally see them, once they were adorned in Red.

The rite was a success.

She saw us. She heard us. She spoke to us.

The blood flowed in silence so loud it echoed, screams raised so high that they fell silent. The silence that it ended with was blissful. It was as if the entirety of Meranthe finally stood still and recognized Her Grace as what She truly was—undeniable beauty.

The Martyr moved. With Her divine power, he moved. He doesn’t breathe like he used to.. But how he was always meant to. Potent, titanic, undeniable. Everything is with purpose, every movement has meaning. He has become more than a monument to sacrifice—he’s become a monument to our devotion.

They came soon after, naturally.

The Just. The Righteous. The Heroes.

An Angel of Kraus followed, looking to stop us. Yet, we did not. We stood our ground.

I found their leader in the chaos. He stood out like a shape of white against a field of black. A shining beacon of ignorance and misplaced fervor. It was a strange dance. Every cut, he erased in short order and I would do the same. It was as if he would deny me a canvas to shape, defiant and steadfast. Perhaps it was his beliefs that gave him that determination. His own faith.

So alike, yet we clashed. In the end, my Shades were the deciding factor. The Veil, Veinrend, Vult…
Her light, Her gaze was on me. I could not fail.

And so I didn’t.

Another came after, a mimic that Zho once knew. A beautiful thing, with faux eyes that were more genuine than many of Meranthe’s. She could be any shape, but she chose the wrong one. It was tragic, such wasted potential. I gave her a gift, a reminder of what she could be. Maybe she liked it—maybe she’ll hate it so much it will correct her anyway.

I can’t wait to see.

When their patriarch was vanquished with mercy, they decried us. When we stood triumphant, they called us villains. Humanity has declared us the enemy, and I could only smile.

The Martyr told me I did well, that Her Grace was proud of me.

It was the first time I cried since Katsuya’s death.

I’d almost forgotten what it meant to be truly at peace.

I was wounded in the war. Nothing that cannot be mended, but my flesh will never forget them.
These cuts, the blood shed, they whispered to me. They called Her name as I lay awake in bed that night. It is as if Her eyes are still on me, even now.

It’s a heavenly feeling. Otherworldly.

This is what it means.

This is what I always look for.

Wounds that sing as they bleed.

Yet, something has changed. The stories I heard of Mydaea, and what I heard from Her calls, differ. She seeks to bleed all of mankind, not for expression but for annihilation. I tremble to think that the feeling in my heart is what I think it is. Doubt in Her goals is something that I didn’t expect to feel. It concerns me. It makes me wonder.

Are there exceptions? What is the step beyond blackening the canvas?
Will I have to end my family, myself, once we succeed?

I don’t know…so I will have to ask.

Who? It’s simple.

The Angel of Art,

My Lady,

Her Grace.

I will ask Her myself.

RE: A Cracked Frame - ShiroKirishiki - 06-19-2025

The sky was painted black in defiance.

Veiled from the sickening eyes of Avalon.

Her Prophet stilled, granting voice to silence.

Then, She spoke—eyes crimson, smile drawn.

Tears of black stained my face.
It was hard to breathe. Hard to think.
The world became small, detail became suggestion—everything was a blur.
Except for Her.

She wasn't there, still imprisoned by the dogs of Avalon.

She peeked through the cracks we made, grasped the tether we cast.

She wasn't there, but was.

The world fled. The sky blackened like the day we cracked her prison.
Silence clung to every pore, every leaf, every breath.
It was more than I could ever hope to be, more than I ever dreamt to become.
I don't remember kneeling, I don't remember praying.
My knees bent of their own accord, my flesh knowing far sooner than I;
I couldn't think, not when I couldn't breathe.

Mydaea.

She saw us.

She heard us.

She spoke.

After all the tribulations. The trials. The wars.

Warding off mankind with all his fervor.

Defending against Humanity and the dog of Avalon.

After it all, we were found worthy.

The tears refused to stop.
They welled from my Blackened Heart and continued every waking moment She was there.
Every word She spoke was like honey, every motion the epitome of grace.
She granted us rewards for our sacrifice. She spoke words of praise.

She spoke my name.

Her divine grace touched me,
granted me a blessing.

For the first time, it was me that was shaped.
It was me that was granted the mercy I gave others.
Flesh was made ink, ink was given form.
I nearly forgot myself, sense bleeding into the endless black.

But I was Hers.

For a fleeting moment,

I became Her ink.

She gave me Her blessing, and a challenge.

To speak not with words, but form.

Shape, motion. Action.

To speak in Silence.

I will be not all there is. There will be more.

I remember the droves of facsimile that defended facsimile.

The unsightly thing that turned my brother from flesh to memory.

I remember their strength, even if it were hollow.

That Painted Army...

I will remake it.

Her Grace granted the means to do it.
Shadows will be given form, thought made reality.
Warriors woven of our devotion,
a sacred wave of mercy.

In order to contend with the indomitable foe of Humanity,

we must master our shape. We must master our truth.

We must master creation.

From shadows I rose.

With shadows I will weave an army of faithful.

To shadows we will return.

The Silence before the reveal.

The Silence between words.

The Silence after the end.

Her Silent Army of Shadows.

RE: A Cracked Frame - ShiroKirishiki - 08-11-2025

Flames rise from burning canvases.

Woes and sorrow met fire and brimstone.

Carved and bled from carcasses,

as wood turns to ash and steel groans.

Pain is such a strange thing.
I've long since forgotten its bite.
The scars of my past mark my skin like ghostly brushstrokes on a canvas.
Each one whispers to me, a memory given form.
Some are louder than others.
Some.. are deafening.

Silence is so loud.. why is it so loud?

I am facsimile.
I am hollow.
I am an empty vessel.

I am an echo.. a message without a voice.

I removed so much of myself, carved it free willingly so that She could be free.
I wanted to be appreciated. To be loved.
My other half never treads outside her sanctuary.
My family is nothing more than whispering memento.
Even as I am surrounded by the faithful, I find myself ever alone.

It is a strange feeling, this pain.
A phantom sting that defies my command.
Incessant. Bitter. Black.
I rewrite meaning in my own flesh,
distorting the message so that it does not bother me..

So then why is it that my heart still hurts?

I do not know what it is, this feeling that festers like a plague.
It defies me, pressing like needles into my skin.
It burns, yet is cold. It pierces, yet is dull.
Every time She calls another 'son', grants gifts for so little effort while I bleed myself dry..

What is it She sees in him? Why him? What has he done to be seen so easily?

Perhaps it is passing fancy.. unless?

I built a city as a shrine to Her.
I held hands with my brother for the last time, for Her.
I have shattered my soul, lost my voice, become naught but a doll made to please Her.
I owe Her so much. I am grateful beyond words. My heart aches to think someone like She would suffer such a fate

And yet... no matter what I have done, I have failed far more than I have succeeded.

Too much black has blotted out the white. The image is blurred. Uncanny.

A crack in a divine cage, faux divinity's ichor on my claws..

Perhaps, I should have considered things more deeply. Not have been as trusting.

Katsuya, Sable, Qiu, Apollone, Aqualyn, Kalmak..

So many more. So many faces that blur into the same.

Where is their monument? Where is their shrine? Where is the grief for their departure?

None here but ash and echo...

It rests in Delphina, collared and docile.
Tranquil and safe.
Protected in its own gilded cage of kindness and mercy.

And now, the shrine I built, the symbol of our devotion, was reduced to a festering pile of corruption.
Blackened hands beget blackened hands.
Yet, I could not stomach the death of innocents in Her name. Within Her hall.
There is no joy in a meaningless death. Destruction for the sake of destruction is barbaric.

Senseless.
Vile.
Monstrous.

But, at my core, am I truly any different?
I have known for a long time, that I am different.
I do not fit the mold the righteous and the just have made.
My Art is a compulsion. My Art is what gives me life.
Everything else is dull and monochrome.
What else could I be, but a monster?

What is wrong with that? It isn't something I can change.

Only a monster could do what I've done and be proud of it.
Only a monster could have—
No... I'm not looking at it properly, am I?
It isn't about me, is it?

All for Her freedom.
Walk with grace.
Bask in the Silence Before.
The Silence Between.
The Silence After.
[Image: 7bwckeplwz7.jpg]

I will do what I must to see Her free.
To right a wrong on a divine scale.
Once it is done, I will remain in the shadows.
The darkness always welcomed me far more than the light.
The moon always looks prettiest against the endless night.
That's enough for me.
[Image: ye3c28qzzq4.jpg]

...It has to be.

RE: A Cracked Frame - ShiroKirishiki - 09-14-2025

The blood of an Angel is tears of sorrow.

Souls eternal, cursed to bear the morrow.

On Her knees, she trembled and wept.

Until His hand extended, for Her to accept.

Wings of black awaited Her,

once She fell from a road straight and narrow.

An ocean of blood ebbs and flows with the tides of an endless war.
Screams filled the air, slicing through the heart far deeper than any blade.
I was frozen in place, shock stilled my hand for the briefest of moments.
What I saw wasn't a cruel mistress, nor was it the idol of indomitable beauty I'd conjured.
I saw Her...hiding in walls of ink, trembling like a leaf about to fall.

She looked just like I did, as a girl. Cowering in the snows of the Izhuran mountains.

Afraid...and alone.

Even in Her sorrow, I am an echo.

Then, Him. The Creator. The orchestrator of a flawed design that I so loathed I called all of Him a stain upon the canvas.

Yet, He saved Her from ruin. He carried Her in His arms to a safer place, away from the wars and death she feared.

What am I to make of that? Have I been wrong this entire time?

My heart, my soul, my voice, my form...everything is devoted to Her.

And so...if He was the one to save Her, and give Her even the slightest hint of joy,

can I be justified in hating Him so absolutely?

I...do not know. That fact eats at me, gnawing at the frayed edges of my existence.

Ever since donning Vult, I have known the certainty of my purpose.

That is, until now.

Even Yoko, who has never faltered in all this time, trembled beside me.
I held her hand, tightly, to reassure her. Yet, it was also for my own sake, as if I would unravel if I let go.
Perhaps it was always like that...

We bore witness to Her tragedy. We bore witness to Her creative ways, and the cruel destruction of Her sanctuary.

I saw the tears that flowed from eyes that saw such wonderful things be rendered to naught.

I saw sorrow and anguish, mourning in every uneven breath as she wept.

I saw...and I knew a terrible truth: Can something as beautiful as that accept something as wretched as me?

My kindness is not pure, my intentions are always coiled in selfishness and cruelty.

If we succeed, bring Her back with wings of white…what will She do? Scorn me? Forget me?

…forgive me?
[Image: c70258a023cf.jpg]

The answer frightens me far more than the echo. But even still, I will serve Her.

I likely cannot be truly loved. But I can love. I will love Her, serve Her, until the end of ends.

We will create a place for Her. Another land that holds Her high, and loves Her as I do.

A place that will protect what She holds dear, spreading Her kindness and beauty.

To that end, I accept my fate as a monster.
I will take on the darkness that needs to match Her light.
When they speak of Her, let it be with smiles and folded hands.

When they speak of me,
let it remind them of the cost of salvation.

RE: A Cracked Frame - ShiroKirishiki - 03-11-2026

The world is nothing but shades and shadows.

Spaces where they are darkest and spaces where they are not.

If I wish to know where I belong, I look to the hollows.

There I will find what I must cull, the heretic and the rot.

She sees...

Surrounded by allies, yet I stood alone by choice for the first time.

Surrounded by eyes watching my back, and not my claws.

The people I surrounded myself with, while they whispered their thoughts.

She hears...

'Redeemed'. 'Respectable'. ‘Pleasant'.

She speaks...
Wrong, of course.
Redemption is impossible for these stained hands.
Not because they cannot grasp at the pure and pull themselves free of the abyss—but because they were meant to be so.
They will remain so.
A litany like a lullaby...

Ink only stains. It dictates. Where it isn’t, becomes the subject.

Did I ever stop to think why?

That is what I am to become.

The absence that defines Her radiance.

The darkest Shadow cast by the most blinding light.

What called to me in the darkness?

The world was cast in shadows, contrast, extremes.

My mirror, shattered, returned ruin to the just mended crystal.

In each of those fractals, I could still see myself. A window into the past.

A window into one possible future. One where She was still caged, unable to break free.

Why did I wait for it for so long?

Yet, those fractals are what remains of her. They have become something else.

Another Whisper, another voice that clings to me in the dark.

When I sleep, I can hear her. I can hear others. They are so much louder at night.

Was it because I was afraid?

Since then, the world was forced into monochrome.

Perhaps my mirror thought it apt to once again tamper with my core.

Perhaps she thought it apt, poetic—even just.

Yet, it shows me how little she truly understood.

How little it mattered. How little it all mattered.

Was it because I thought I didn't deserve an answer?

The past is a mirror. The present, its reflection.

If you look only within it, you will never see what’s before you.

What comes after. What you can touch.

When everything hurt so much for so long... could I truly know the difference?

My mirror is much the same. She grasps at illusions, hallucinations, and echoes.

She reaches for the past that no longer exists, the past that she helped bring to a close herself.

That betrayal… perhaps she doesn’t understand, even now, how much that matters to me.

How much it weighs on me.

Who decides what is enough? Who chooses when suffering is penance, or indulgence?

Unlike her, who clings to Her Grace’s stained past as if it were a guide, I saw what She had become as a tragedy.
Unlike her, who sees endless destruction as beautiful, I see the antithesis of Her wishes.
Unlike her, who can only think of herself and her wants, I have only ever broken myself and suffered for Her.
I thought it was me. My verdict was long since carved into flesh...

Penance. Retribution. Divine Suffering.

Martyrdom.

Irredeemable. Just like Her.

Pain is holy. Agony is litany.

Wretched and undeniable. I accepted the wages of sin.

I thought pain was what made things real.

I thought agony was the wages of devotion.

I thought Cruelty was Kindness’ mirror.

But no guillotine greeted me. No pyre. No shackles.

I was wrong.

What I was left with... was clay. Again.
Pain is not holiness.
Agony is not prayer.
Cruelty is not Kindness wearing another face.
Uncertainty is like rot in my mind.

I mistook suffering for devotion because it was the only language I know how to speak.

It festers.

The path forward is shadowed.

The end is shrouded in uncertainty.

The world She will return to is a gnarled and crooked journey.

Twisted. Stained. Uneven.

Her radiance will wash away the darkness, yet it will blind Her to the shadows She casts.
In this world plagued by shadows and darkness, by smoke and mirrors, Her own benevolence will paralyze Her.
It causes my chest to tighten, my heart to beat harder.

I have walked in the darkness enough to know it.

I have chased Her light within this shrouded path for decades.

To walk through darkness, one usually will be guided by lanternlight.

A heart I didn't know I had... Not until recently.

Instead, I will be the Shadow that guides Her.

I will teach Her what it means to be human. What it means to be selfish.

I will guide Her through each and every stumble. Every misstep.

It was indignation that rose in my chest.

And in order to do that…

I must learn to be human, myself.

It was a cry of anger.
It truly starts now, with this failure.
It finally starts now, with monochrome returned to vibrance.
This era of wretchedness and indulgence…

…It ends now.