Three Stones; a Parable

By: Flair Posted on: November 06, 2011

Many years ago, on the outskirts of Delos, lived a bright and curious young man. He was born of poor farmers, and it was assumed the young man would be a farmer as well. As he loved the farm well, he was content with this. One Spring, just as everything had started to bloom, he took a walk along the banks of the river with his beloved. There, they came across three perfectly smooth stones. One was as black as onyx, the second as white as snow, and the third, of course, was as grey as a cloudy day.

At first, the young man thought nothing of the stones. On a whim, he picked them up, placed them in his pocket and went along his way. That night, as he lay in bed, he found that he could not stop thinking about them. They were the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Something gnawed at him, however.

The white stone could be just a little darker, he thought. The black, more white. The grey could be more distinct. At first, this was a vague feeling of discontent, but it grew until it was an obsession. Unable to eat or sleep, he covered them with a velvet cloth as to never have to look at them again. Still, his desires lingered.

The boy, now a man, dedicated himself to the dark arts. He spent every waking moment on them until he grew quite powerful, indeed. In fact, he was known by many as the most powerful ritualist in Sapience. His art was feared by all from East to West, but his thought always came back to the stones. At night, he worked his dark magics upon them. He chanted his incantations into the cloth in hope to change the very nature of the objects he held most dear.

He lost his friends. He lost his family. He lost his home and, yes, he lost the woman he loved. It mattered little to him. What mattered were the stones. Night after night, year after year, for centuries he tried to make them bend to his will, never once daring to lift the cloth and gaze upon their beauty.

Until, that is, he was very old and frail, indeed. On his deathbed, he knew the time had come to gaze upon the work of his renowned life. He was to finally look upon the beauty he had created. With trembling hands and wide eyes, he lifted the cloth--only to find Nothing.

This is the work of my Master.