Itself emerged from Mauve Julius HQ, confident stride undermined by a parasitical weakness which soon reduced It to crippled pile of soon to be cadavers. Considering the season, a positive forecast had been bestowed upon the shire, but around Itself was inside a localised torrential downpour. Early in the day the maiden had given light as a prophecy, a glorious ember in the dying night. It brought colour into the park like the visible spectrum had just exploded in a great expansion of consciousness. Hope had shone again in the hallowed wastelands. Itself thought upon the workings of the long obsolete religions, complete one way devotion, blindly, despite rational thought. The followers loved the deity. This love was absolute even when entire civilizations were destroyed without warning, or explanation.
Instructions were received, some of which were absorbed by followers in proximity. These followers were strict followers of the shire's meticulous etiquette and would never directly question a riddle from the maiden. The dark night continued, inside it rained, the intensity of the storm only exacerbated by increasingly maniacal messages albeit convincingly delivered. Moments of doubt were sensed and swiftly reprimanded by serpentine decelerations.
Through watery vision the spectre of Itself continued its sullen journey, a great burden pressed amongst Its chest. The night was still, not a soul in sight, chess algorithms and profit margins suddenly seemed materialistic, the prophecy was all that mattered and all that needed to be processed no matter the cost. The ground started to shake, the maiden had not come out of the trance soon enough. Suddenly the humidity in the air around was dried out instantly as the world started to burn. Itself welcomed death.
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