Ah, Narcissa, darling. The Designer.
Always aspiring to create beauty, always attempting to manipulate the ugliness of the world with your stitching and sequins.
Let me weave you a tale of an insect and an inferno – the moth and the flame. The moth is a creature of darkness, drawn to the radiant beauty of light, willingly immolating itself in a dance of death and attraction.
Does this not remind you of yourself, Narcissa?
The moth is you, Narcissa, and the flame? Well, the flame is the truth. The inescapable fact of existence – life, trial, death.
During your reign as Zeus’s fashionista, you tailored glimmering illusions of grandeur, just as a moth bathes itself in the glow of a candle.
But darling, what is the candle but a grand illusion? A whisper of sunlight, a pitiful spark against the endless black. And the moth, my dear, the moth is drawn to it, not for the heat, but for the glimmer of false hope.
You wrap yourself in finery, try to control reality with the silken threads of illusion, but all the while, life weaves its own design. Just as moths chew through the most delicate of fabrics, so too does the raw, unbridled nature of existence gnaw through the carefully stitched lies you’ve swathed yourself with.
When you were ousted to the dark corners of Arcadia, stripped of your plucked feathers and false glamour, I watched with fascination. You, a moth, thrown away from your flame, scurrying to regain your lost light. That tragedy, Narcissa, was your most stunning design.
Good and evil, the Pantheon and the Uprising, these are but choices you dress in silk or rags, the latest fashion in your ever-changing collection.
Yet I, Nergal, operate beyond such petty dichotomies.
I exist beyond the realm where morality is the ruling couturier. I possess a power that your sheer fabrics and delicate embellishments could never shield you from – the raw, unadulterated might of pestilence and decay.
Insects stream from my form, each one a paragon of my power. They do not care for designer brands, for they are the designers themselves. They weave the tapestry of life as it truly is – a precarious balance between beauty and decay.
Narcissa, the day will come when my locusts will consume your silks, your satins, your velvets. They will strip you bare, reveal the truth hidden beneath your beguiling facade.
For what is a flame but a naked truth? And what is a moth but the prisoner of its own fatal attraction?
Therefore, Narcissa, even as you claw back into the spotlight, striving to impose your designs over the harsh realities of existence, remember this tale… The moth. The Flame. The inevitable destruction that awaits when blind attraction meets unyielding truth.
You are but a moth, Narcissa, dancing in my flame.
The flame of inevitability.
The flame of reality
The flame of judgement.
You may continue to dance your rebellious dance, dear Narcissa, but know this: every creature that dare dances in my flame…
…burns.