|They are the hollow men. Art By: Zdzislaw Beksinski|
The Shadows of the Scream
They are heralded by sighs and shuffled footsteps, moving with the gate of a prisoner traveling to a predetermined death. Their form is vague, a man or woman, hunched shoulders and downturned face. Its edges are smoothed over like a weathered statue, possessing an indication of clothes over an emaciated and broken form. Colored gray, the hues of life had been washed from this form long ago. Around the humanoid figure reality boils in a haze of umber and vermilion. Sharply outlined shapes of weapons, fists, and sneering faces flash from the miasma in whip-crack succession. Yells of archetypal captors cascade out of the bloodied cloud to cry out, “Halt, prisoner.”
As the Grey Folk are the residue of uncaring and soulless bureaucracies, the Shadows of the Scream are the residue of their actions. They are silhouettes, outlines created on the surface of reality, shaped like victims. Each victim, encapsulated by the violence visited upon them, fades in an affirmation of their mortality, but the hollow space in the world left by their passing, continues in the wake of bureaucratic progress. These spaces are the spot in reality a victim took up as violence crashed upon them. Shadows of the Scream are not the victims themselves, they are merely islands of natural reality surrounded by a wasteland created through continued violence. The human shapes are not the monsters, they are merely the hollow core of a bruised reality moved about by the true substance of their exterior. Found in places where death was casual and ever present, they wander their spawning ground, perpetuating the very acts of their creation.
|Healers without mercy.|
A sphere, its diameter as wide as an adult is tall, needle sharp spikes projecting from every portion of its surface. Colored a dark purple near its center, the hue fades to an almost pink-like lavender near the tips of its spiked projections. Its material is transparent, the color coming from within. At its center a fetal form bobs and shudders, always facing the object of attention. A speed beyond natural, its movement possessing a machine-like ability for economy. It doesn't speak, its purpose clear as it approaches without hesitation.
They are the fixers, the mechanics of reality, bringing balance to the wounds of discord in reality. Whether natural, or created through unknown artifice, is a matter of debate among theologians and philosophers. Demiurgus are drawn to tears in reality gone septic, mending that which can be saved, redacting the too far gone. Seen by thousands, recalled by few, they ease the hurts of reality and unmake memories of those who bore witness. Their minds are foreign, moved by purposes and methodologies that are vague to the most observant. They are not saviors, nor the healers of anything mortal, just as capable of erasing an entire village from memory and reality as sealing ruptures in space. Not creatures of order or chaos, they seek to bring reality back to a level state, just as often undoing residue of bureaucratic over-order as chaotic breaks. Complex actions and simple mindset, Demiurgus pursue their goals without regard for collateral damage. Communication is pointless, for the Demiurgus action is the only meaning.