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Description
WARNING
THIS STORY CONTAINS SELF-MUTILATION. IF SUCH A THING IS A TRIGGER FOR YOU, OR MAKES YOU FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE, DO NOT READ THIS. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, AND THEREFORE ONLY HAVE YOURSELF TO BLAME IF YOU READ IT AND ARE OFFENDED.

The small glade was a few miles from most human settlements in the area. There was a trapper or two in the wilderness, but the chance of them stumbling across him was negligible at best. After all, Ulysses had chosen this spot for seclusion, not necessarily for the privacy, but in order to avoid the myriad of questions and impressions that his religious practices inevitably brought. Society frowned upon Morthis rites, despite the fact that most of the methods used in it were already present.

Of course it was also the way of society to simply ignore its darker aspects. Out of sight, out of mind.

The man removed his outer garment with utmost care, placing it upon a nearby rock as not to have it dirtied by the earth. The sleeve on his right arm was rolled up to the elbow. Ulysses studied his bare flesh as he drew his Arma Specibus from its sheathe. The weapon shifted and flowed into the shape of a long knife, sharp as a surgical scalpel.

Blessed are those who suffer.

Flashing silver metal softly kissed naked flesh. Exactly one inch. Life's dark red wine weeped forth from the fissure. The Agent watched the crimson flow round his wrist and drip into the verdant tapestry of nature. His expression did not change from it's doll-like look of indifference. But a sigh of issued forth from between his lips. Relief.

Self-mutilation is often considered a sign of an unbalanced life. Depression, mental instability, death wish. Society attached negative connotations to it. And for the most part, they were right. Most cases of self-harm were the result of unhappy people.

But the rites of the Morthis did not sprout from unhappiness. In fact, as Ulysses drew the knife across his skin again further up his arm, there was a feeling almost close to contentment. It was a holy ritual to the Black Children. Punishment for the sin of being Morthis.

The Morthis could not feel at peace unless they were suffering. Perhaps it was the result of being born of Angra Mainyu. Or maybe it was the millenia of having lived in facilities similar to concentration camps. Whatever the reason, they could generally not find contentment in what would generally be considered a 'normal' life. Obeying the Saviour and suffering were the few pleasures they felt in their existence.

There were now four cuts. Equidistant from one another, all exactly one inch. The Specibus was sheathed as the forearm was turned so that the dark wine could drip freely. And where his tainted blood dripped, the grass withered and crumbled. Flowers rotted away. Anything that liquid touched was corrupted and killed.

I am All The Evil's Of This World.

The sin that flowed in his veins in the place of blood was proof of that.

Forgiveness was not something that a Morthis could achieve. As a twisted, blasphemous existence, they could not possibly redeemed by themselves. They had to be purified by pain, or by others.

"Amen." Came the whispered word, a fervent prayer.

Description
WARNING
THIS STORY CONTAINS SELF-MUTILATION. IF SUCH A THING IS A TRIGGER FOR YOU, OR MAKES YOU FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE, DO NOT READ THIS. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, AND THEREFORE ONLY HAVE YOURSELF TO BLAME IF YOU READ IT AND ARE OFFENDED.

The small glade was a few miles from most human settlements in the area. There was a trapper or two in the wilderness, but the chance of them stumbling across him was negligible at best. After all, Ulysses had chosen this spot for seclusion, not necessarily for the privacy, but in order to avoid the myriad of questions and impressions that his religious practices inevitably brought. Society frowned upon Morthis rites, despite the fact that most of the methods used in it were already present.

Of course it was also the way of society to simply ignore its darker aspects. Out of sight, out of mind.

The man removed his outer garment with utmost care, placing it upon a nearby rock as not to have it dirtied by the earth. The sleeve on his right arm was rolled up to the elbow. Ulysses studied his bare flesh as he drew his Arma Specibus from its sheathe. The weapon shifted and flowed into the shape of a long knife, sharp as a surgical scalpel.

Blessed are those who suffer.

Flashing silver metal softly kissed naked flesh. Exactly one inch. Life's dark red wine weeped forth from the fissure. The Agent watched the crimson flow round his wrist and drip into the verdant tapestry of nature. His expression did not change from it's doll-like look of indifference. But a sigh of issued forth from between his lips. Relief.

Self-mutilation is often considered a sign of an unbalanced life. Depression, mental instability, death wish. Society attached negative connotations to it. And for the most part, they were right. Most cases of self-harm were the result of unhappy people.

But the rites of the Morthis did not sprout from unhappiness. In fact, as Ulysses drew the knife across his skin again further up his arm, there was a feeling almost close to contentment. It was a holy ritual to the Black Children. Punishment for the sin of being Morthis.

The Morthis could not feel at peace unless they were suffering. Perhaps it was the result of being born of Angra Mainyu. Or maybe it was the millenia of having lived in facilities similar to concentration camps. Whatever the reason, they could generally not find contentment in what would generally be considered a 'normal' life. Obeying the Saviour and suffering were the few pleasures they felt in their existence.

There were now four cuts. Equidistant from one another, all exactly one inch. The Specibus was sheathed as the forearm was turned so that the dark wine could drip freely. And where his tainted blood dripped, the grass withered and crumbled. Flowers rotted away. Anything that liquid touched was corrupted and killed.

I am All The Evil's Of This World.

The sin that flowed in his veins in the place of blood was proof of that.

Forgiveness was not something that a Morthis could achieve. As a twisted, blasphemous existence, they could not possibly redeemed by themselves. They had to be purified by pain, or by others.

"Amen." Came the whispered word, a fervent prayer.