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The Sandman
Posts: 182
Joined: Mon Nov 30, 2020 8:34 am




Close your eyes…

Go to sleep.

Imagine an artisan sitting at a potter’s wheel.
His calloused hands throw a lump of clay onto the work surface, which then spins. His sinewy arms flex as he manipulates the material, taking it from its raw state and giving it form - moulding it to his specification and liking.

Having learned everything he knows from his mentor, who was taught by his mentor—and so on—the potter has honed his craft through years of dedication and perseverance.

Though his scarred, knotted hands may look like rough instruments, he uses his digits and tools with tremendous precision and dexterity.

Shaping a perfectly rounded, hourglass-shaped pot, he places it on a shelf filled with his other works, all to be fired in the kiln.

Looking at all his sculptures affectionately, he sighs

Despite his thriving workshop, breadth of experience, and discipline, he feels unfulfilled.
Nobody has stepped into the studio as he did so long ago, hungry for knowledge, with a desire to prove themselves.
Without an apprentice, the artisan resigns himself to the fact that his knowledge will die with him, and his studio will stand empty long after he departs it.

It seems that your workshop is devoid of malleable, young minds, too.

Having long since taken on the mantle yourself, you’ve a legacy and a reputation to live up to. You learned from your mentor, who was tutored by his mentor, and so on. Your prowess is evident by your long list of victims.

There’s always been two of you: a master and an apprentice. That’s the rule.

Breaking tradition, you’ve been unable to find a student prodigious enough to inherit your name and mask.
You’ve scoured the globe high and low, yet deemed nobody worthy of continuing your dynasty.

In a bid to expedite and force the process, you’ve set your sights on an unwilling successor.

Unlike our artisanal friend, however, you strike not with deftness and finesse. Your approach is heavy-handed, as you swing with full-force your own blunt implement.

To the untrained eye, it may appear as though you’re in control.

As far as the silent, fearful masses are concerned, you’re in the middle of producing another exquisite work of art, moulding the clay on your wheel.

I, however, can spot the imperfections in your handiwork, as you rush through a process which takes time.

You know they’re there, but you’re desperate not to disgrace those who came before you by taking their knowledge—and title—to the grave.

The hairline cracks grow and spiderweb, compromising the structural integrity of the piece.
Forgetting to aerate your handiwork as you chuck it into the kiln, the immense temperature proves too much, as the sculpture succumbs to internal pressure and blows up in your face.

Wasting the opportunity to take someone under your wing, you’ll reluctantly accept that the ring will stand empty long after you depart it, and that your mask, title, and heritage will all be buried in the dirt.

It’s nothing personal. It’s just pot luck.

Sweet dreams, Impaler.

One, two, Sandman’s coming for you…
OSW Champion x2
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