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The Small Figure

Of Monsters and Little Birds

The small figure made little impression in the crowd of other small figures, all clad in the soft camel and grey of the monastery’s orphanage. The other orphans, accustomed to its presence from many nights and days of work and sleep paid it no mind, for surely it was of no concern to them. Rather, all eyes focused on the tall, thin, hated figure of the monastery’s warden of children, a man of no gentleness and of certain tastes that would have caused him to be cast out of the monastery, if any of the children could bring themselves beyond their terror of the man to tell of them.

He was pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. Crossing the room, his eyes roving among the children as they stood waiting to sing for the monks after they finished their devotions and came to eat. The abbot of the monastery had been delighted at the idea of a children's choir, something he thought would be a good use of the children's time and energy, and an effective way of training them in their future devotions as either monks themselves, or as bonded farmers for the monastery. He had listened delightedly when the warden of children had suggested the idea, and hadn’t found reason to regret allowing it yet.

The small figure was there because its voice was clear enough and sweet enough to pass the warden of children's selection. It was small enough to be cowed by the warden of children, small enough not to say anything, yet big enough that even the warden of children's perverse standards weren't violated. Like all of the choir, it had been taken to the warden of children's cell at night upon occasion. For prayer, the warden of children would explain, if asked. He had prepared well for his indulgences, and took great cares to assure that they would remain uninterrupted.

On the occasions when the warden of children's attentions proved to be too much for a child, well, children were easy to dispose of, and the local butcher hadn't minded the occasional young pig, already dressed for display in his window, from the generosity of the monastery’s pantry. Indeed, the warden of children's preparations were careful and thorough.

The small figure sang its lines with the artless grace of childhood. None of the children showed any great skill as musicians. If any had such skills, he or she would be well advised to hide them, for anything that attracted the warden of children's attentions was likely to result in one "praying" with him more often. The small figure truly knew none of this, for it was simple, its needs and wants extending only for the next few moments, and then tapering off into nothing, its view of the world not extending much beyond the now, the here, and the most immediate of urges. Thus it often forgot the meaning of praying with the warden of children. In some ways this was a mercy to it, a means of washing away a terrible, dark stain on its existences.

Of course, like all the children, in the choir or not, it would dance the forms of devotion taught to it by its teachers. Indeed, it danced the devotions surprisingly well, its light, small body flowing from stance to stance like liquid, rather than human flesh. But again, the small figure knew little of this, only that it liked the devotional dances, and it liked to sing, and that occasionally, something very bad happened that it didn't remember, but that it always made it through that, and continued to live and eat and shit and dance and sing. Then one day, standing before the choir of children, pacing back and forth, waiting for the monks to finish their devotions, the warden of children selected the small figure for his companion that night.

The monks came in just as the bell rang, indicating the time for eating had begun. The choir sang, their soft and harsh children's voices clear as glass and gentle as feathers falling from a flock of startled birds. The monks ate, and the abbot complimented the warden of children once again on his hard work, his jolly voice rippling through his many chins to gurgle his praise. The warden of children accepted graciously on behalf of his charges, then ushered them out to their beds. The small figure, he kept back.

Once the children were abed, he led the small figure through the halls of the monastery to his cell, a smallish room set away from the cells of the other monks. He ushered the small figure in, and barred the door behind him. It wouldn't do, after all, for the night warden to discover his personal "devotions".

That night, the warden was feeling especially tense. There was no particular reason. Sometimes, he just felt tense, and his indulgences allowed him to release that tension. His indulgences aside, he was the model of what a monk should be, so surely there wasn't any real harm in what he was doing, was there? Of course, on the nights when he felt this tense, he usually had to visit the butcher soon afterward to dispose of... the extra pig. The one that the monastery had slaughtered by mistake.

He was not gentle that night, his attentions especially intense, as he tried to work out his tension. Finally he tired for a time, and dozed, the small figure next to him, battered and gasping, its blood seeping from a dozen dozen small cuts and bites and from places that blood should never come from, whether one is large or very, very small, like the small figure. As it lay, gasping between split and crushed lips into bruised lungs, one slowly filling with blood from the broken ribs that punctured it, it looked out of the tiny window high in the wall of the cell, and through it could just see the silent silver crescent of the moon.

The monks taught that once the moon and the sun had been friends of mankind, but had grown corrupt, and so the great dragons had risen up, and fought the sun and the moon, and had chased them far into the sky, that they might not trouble the people again. The small figure thought of none of this, its mind not able to handle such complex thoughts when safe and secure in its own bed, much less teetering on the brink of death as it was now. Instead, its mind turned to how pretty the moon was, and how it wished it might rise like the sparrows it liked to watch, and go into the sky to sing to the moon and dance for her. Thus it tried to leave behind the shattered shell that it had become.

"But you mustn't, small one," said a gentle voice from beside the small figure, at once silvery, cool, and warm. "I want you to sing for me, too. But to do so you must live."

"Oh," the small figure tried to say, but its word came more as a fading cough of blood.

"Shh. Be still now. I will fix what is broken, and then you will eat a little something, and then you may sing for me." So saying, the moon passed her gentle hand over the small figure, and where they passed, broken bones and crushed flesh were set right again. Soon, the small figure was whole once more, and more so, for strength now flowed through its limbs, small though they yet were, greater than a dozen of the monks, and the natural suppleness of youth, already greater than normal in the small figure, was increased beyond the scope of mortals, great and small. The small figure sat up on the bed, and started to thank the beautiful moon, but was stopped by her finger upon its lips.

"Shh. Eat first of this, then you may sing for me." With, the moon reached into her silver robes and pulled forth a sparrow, just like the ones the small figure had always watched, and handed it to the small figure. "Eat," she said, and so the small figure ate the sparrow, not thinking anything of it, for the moon was there, and she had told the small figure to eat. The sparrow disappeared quickly, for the children of the monastery were given just enough to live on, lest they become gluttonous, as the warden of children put it, and so were always hungry. The feathers tickled, and parts were hard to chew, but the small figure ate every bit of the sparrow, for that was what the moon had told it to do.

No sooner had the small figure eaten the sparrow, than it began to feel even more different. Some things stood out more, like the weave of the remaining scraps of its clothing clinging to its body, and the smell of the warden of children as he lay, still sleeping, despite the moon being in his cell. The sounds of the whole monastery were clear as a bell to the small figure.

"Now, sing for me, small one," said the moon, her smile wide and gentle, and yet, the small figure now saw, also somewhat cruel, though not to it. And so the small figure began to sing, its voice clearer and brighter than it had ever been before, as beautiful as the finest high bells or the song of a thousand songbirds condensed and distilled. The small figure's song was the very meaning of song, if just for a moment. That moment was all that it took to awaken the warden of children, all that it took for his hand to reach out and strike the face of the small figure.

The moon's voice lingered after her, whispering to the small figure. "This one, too, you may eat. Then go out and find others that I have Chosen, for now you are mine, small one," she said, though she was already gone.

At this, the small figure did not hesitate, but leapt upon the warden of children, who, though he fought hard for his life, soon lay asleep forever, and shortly thereafter, could not lay at all, for the small figure did as it was told, and ate every bit of the warden of children it could find. Then it slept for the rest of the night, and all the next day, though there came a knocking, then a pounding, then a crashing on the door of the cell. Only when the crashing began to break through the door did the small figure change its shape, as it knew it could now, and fly through the tiny window, leaving only torn, blood-soaked blankets to baffle the monks who had put a monster over the children, only to have it eaten by another monster.

The Eternal Now

If the small figure ever had a name, it is long forgotten in the madness that wraps its mind. The small figure is not stupid, or foolish, it just sees little need for a name that means nothing. Likewise, the small figure has only the vaguest of ideas that many things in Creation are divided into "male" and "female". It has long since lost track of which it started out as, and places no particular importance on either over the other. Its appearance does not seem to be particularly fixed, either, and it routinely uses various techniques to alter the face it presents to the world. Since Exaltation, the small figure has wandered the lands of the threshold and the marches of the Wyld. There has been little pattern to its wanderings, yet it always seems to be in the middle of the oddest tasks, and even senior No Moons give wide berth to the small figure when it enters their territory. In its wanderings, the small figure has managed to acquire a sizable number of debts owed it by an impressive array of lunars, and has torn many terrible oaths from the Raksha of the Wyld. Noone is certain when the small figure Exalted, though the luminaries of the Silver pact are certain that it must have been sometime in the last hundred to hundred-and-fifty years. None claim mentorship of the small figure, and none can be found who admit to its initiation, yet those who have seen it report that it bears the tatoos and scars of the silver pact. Likewise, none know whether the small figure even follows the path, for the stories conflict. The small figure follows its own path, guided by its own dreams and visions. What course that is, again, none know.

Things that go Crunch in the Dark

Name: "The small figure" Caste: Changing Moon Nature: Visionary Virtues:

Compassion: , Conviction , Temperance , Valor

Virtue Flaw:

Current Limit:

Attributes:

Strength: , Dexterity: , Stamina:

Charisma: , Manipulation: , Appearance:

Perception: , Intelligence: , Wits:

Abilities:

Favored:

Other:

Statistics

When I get to them. In the meantime...

Lunar Changing Moon P-S-M Survival, Performance, resistance, Archery, MA

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