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The Green Baron

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This is a story that I wrote that I think users here would appreciate. I frequently write fiction, so there'll be plenty more sometime in the future. I may make this story into a novella at some point.


  “You will release her immediately.”

     “I do not possess the authority.” The seated jailkeeper was twisting his head to find the voice, careful to appear calm.    

     The catacombs were dark. Coffins lined the walls alongside slots to put torches. He had no right to be here, but rights were no longer a concern. There was a moral requirement that he persist, lest gave up on his own cherished life. No, it was deeper; it was an aesthetic drive towards the image of reality he wanted to create. Yesra had nullified with her dictatorship any possible thought of defying the Kingdom, or even the possibility to contemplate that there were alternate philosophies of existence.     

    “And for what reason do you require authority from anyone but yourself?”     

Footsteps were echoing behind the jailkeeper. He turned around. “The kingdom derives its authority -–“

“I did not ask about the Kingdom. I asked why you require outside authority.”

Footsteps echoed from overhead on the ceiling. He looked up. “You’re the Green Baron, aren't you?”

“Your question does not matter, for you fear taking responsibility of who you have become.”

Footsteps echoed from all directions at once. The jail keeper stood up and pulled out a pointed sword. “I respect the rule of law! I am a true Yesran.”

“You are ignorant of where these laws derive. You are ignorant of the Yesran philosophy. You are ignorant of your own philosophy.”

The four illusions of the Baron became visible at once. They stepped towards the jailkeeper and sliced at him with beams of light. He fell backwards into his chair as the illusions disappeared. “And your arrogance betrays your subjective selfishness.”

“If selfish admiration of my own life is merely arrogance, the denial of your life is humble altruism that you admire so much.”

The Baron -- tall with green eyes, holding two scimitars whose blades were painted green -- appeared in front of the jailkeeper, facing him. The jailkeeper fell backwards in his chair; a flaming sword rose up from the ground and pierced his back. The sword disappeared. The rest of his body quickly became ash. Such a glorious death for the worshiper of rebirth, existing through eternal and divine faith that Yesra would find a cure to mortality and resurrect all her followers. Yesra had declared that mortality would end within a decade, as long as all the citizens practiced the virtues necessary for the Kingdom to accomplish the Miracle. He sheathed his scimitars.

    From the ash, the Baron found a ring of keys and picked them up. With his green shoulder cape, he swept away the remnants of the jailkeeper. He leapt over the chair and turned left to walk down the damp hallway. More coffins and torch slots; he held his hand in front of himself and snapped his fingers, making a green flame appear. Further down the hallway, he saw a metal door. Running up to the door, he clicked the key into place. And there she was. Farina, petrified by Yesra’s experiments.     

Murder, death, it was necessary to bring about the Baron’s will to life. It did not matter that morality ceased to hold meaning any longer in the twisted world of Yesra’s whim. In another world, if the dictatorship did not exist, he would have chosen life. But here, there was constant playing with death, rendering all people vulnerable. Anyone who attempted to live by the full meaning of the term would quickly discover the godlike power of Yesra. As long as that spark within him continue to burn, that passion from his sense of life, he would push on. Upon seeing Farina, and remembering her fiery speeches the months before Yesra came to power, the spark was slightly enlivened.

The Baron thrust both his arms in front of himself. From his palms, streams of fire flowed out for a few moments. Farina’s petrified body began to glisten. Recognizing that she was as light as a featherstone, he picked her up with one arm. Having memorized the layout he passed through in the dungeon, he ran his way back to where he came. Behind him, he left illusions to distract any pursuers.

He had survived to fight another day.

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11 hours ago, epistemologue said:

Well, as long as we as non-artists are posting bad fiction to make a philosophical point, I might as well post mine.

I'm not a non-artist, nor am I making a philosophical point specifically. But if you think it's a bad story, say why. :)

I'll split the thread, though.

Edited by dream_weaver
Fixed link to Abraham
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