The Book of Commoner
Naomi Baxter wasn't all that special, not in the sense of an anime protagonist. Her life wasn't that exciting, but it wasn't something she was upset about, and it certainly wasn't something that kept her awake at night. However, everyone likes to dream. Naomi also did consider herself a dreamer. The only television you can watch while sleeping. She didn't watch TV. Life was too short for such formalities. Instead, she loved to walk. Not enough to advertise it, but it was something she would tend to find herself doing, probably more than most who have 'Hiking' in their tinder bio. She didn't have any preferred walking routes; sometimes, it was to shops and other times through the public gardens. She often walked without any real goal in mind, sometimes with one, but that was not the point; it wouldn't be unusual for Naomi to spend nearly half the day or more outside. Her house was far less lived-in than most. She often felt like a guest in her home, but that wasn't that bad of a thing. But what was a bad thing, or at the very least unexpected, was finding a small cork figurine at the foot of the door. The figure was a winged female in a Victorian maid dress; it was antique and highly detailed, but what was it doing here? What was it doing at her house? It would go on the mantelpiece, Naomi decided.
The Book of Belief
Naomi Baxter wasn't that religious. However, she often found herself in the house, a place that very recently felt like it had been dyed with a sanctified aura. It compelled her to stay inside for longer and longer. With each passing day, the cork character drew much of her attention. She still found time to eat, drink, and sleep, but she became more of a night owl. She had never been the type to pray, but a few words here and there could not harm. The lady on the mantelpiece did not care; perhaps she even loved praise. Who could say either way? It's not as if the lady could talk, to her knowledge. She felt Cork could not communicate; that did not mean one-sided conversations were terrible. What if the prayers get a bit longer every day, and she takes an extended break from work to be closer to the figurine? Others have done far stranger for far less. She knew it was the right thing to do. The prayers would take about one hour to complete. Still, she didn't mind. Being around the cork lady was soothing. And the best way to describe it was a sort of compulsion. No, maybe 'need' would be better. She needed to be around the lady more. Did this lady have a name? Naomi hadn't considered it, she guessed it wouldn't be a bad thing to name it, but she also didn't want to presume a name. So she looked closely and envisioned the lady in her mind; it was initially fuzzy. She did come up with a name; it began with S, Slave, Serf, maybe it was another letter or another word entirely. The vision was too blurry. Especially now, she would try again tomorrow; perhaps she will be able to see clearer.
The Book of Transcendence
Naomi Baxter wasn't that much of a 'holder'. She didn't pride herself on her ability to hold or grip things and did this as little as she needed to. It wasn't a habit of hers. Still, grasping the little cork lady as tightly as she was able, that was something she was making a habit of, just like she enjoyed walking, now wanted to hold and pray, two things she often did in tandem. Her hands grew warm and warmer the longer she held the cork lady. This would get too hot to bear, and she would end up putting the lady down to cool and put her hands under the tap. Getting used to such heat would not be very easy. Such things seldom were. Going against instincts, forcing yourself to endure things you never typically would. Tools were required. Naomi knew she had some tape, or perhaps string, something that would keep her hands bound to the cork lady. She didn't want to let go. The pain was part and parcel with the idol atop her mantelpiece, that's what Naomi thought, but one thing she still hadn't thought of was a name. Still, the vision of the 'S' word was becoming more apparent, not enough for a final say on the matter. There was time. There always was.
The Book of Angel
Naomi Baxter wasn't that angelic; sure, her wings were white and fluffy and extended seven feet from her back. Her clothes had changed; her jeans and top were now a Victorian-era maid outfit. It was as distressing as you might expect, having the clothes on your back just up and changing the way they did. There could be an argument for growing wings from your back, which would ordinarily be true in most. No, in all cases, humans don't have wings; wings are not human limbs. Naomi found it possible for her wings to retract. Doing so hurt; it hurt a lot. Having a scream that comes out of your throat with such ferocity that the glass of your windows shakes was an experience that was not too pleasant. What was even less enjoyable was the frequency at which she found herself doing it. A method to try and get used to the wings was to bite onto a belt. This was mainly to keep her voice at bay. In short, this could have gone better than it did, but so could many things, her hands that sustained third-degree burns from holding the cork lady, the skin on her hands peeled. Perhaps the worst thing of all is that the cork lady burned to ashes in blue fire upon gaining her wings and the new wardrobe. Fortunately, the fire had no impact on her house; it would have been an embarrassing conversation with the insurance company.
The Book of Clarity
Naomi Baxter wasn't that clouded in her judgment, she has indeed had a persistent headache for some time, it is also true that as of late, her face has been frowning and scorning a lot more, this isn't to say she never smiled, she did, a regular amount for anyone, her first scornful frown found it's way to her face as she was cleaning up the ash of the wooden lady, it was not the act of cleaning she found scornful nor the reason for the cleaning, this was much more profound scorn that only after the figureines seemingly self-imposed destruction imbedded its way into her pshyce, this was not a natural emotional transition it felt much more disconnected, the sensation of having anothers thoughts and feelings drilled into your limbic system tended to have, even though these thoughts were of an external nature the longer that Naomi carried these thoughts the harder it was to discern them from her own and gradually over the next few days these new ideas and opinions would fortify themself and become one with her original emotions, soon enough Naomi would not be able to go by that denominator anylonger, she would require a new identity, perhaps her mind was as straightforward as it was scornful, scornful of everything it saw around her, everything it knew and didn't, disdainful of her surroundings and the denizens walking and breathing around her, scornful of all things evil and good that were in anyway related to these denizens, their creations and destructions, their loves and hates, the new and old, this sconrfullness built up to more closely resemble a vile hatered, the sort of hatered that could make one sick to their stomach. A hatred that could be dangerous.
The Book of Extinction
The Servant wasn't that disgusted with humanity. She knew they were flawed by nature. She understood how impossible it would be to achieve things like perfection. This was all perfectly reasonable and acceptable. Still, what wasn't sufficient and maybe going as far as being unacceptable, was the filth and muck. The dirt she had seen, the sins crawling on the backs of many around her. Such disgusting filth should be cleaned, the stains removed by force, if it is to be, the stench of the filth of those around it destroyed. The Servant didn't want to do this. She didn't want to do anything remotely close to this. Everyone has to make sacrifices; some are more severe than others in the same vein that some are less severe than others. Through this train of thought, The Servant found herself flapping her wings high in the sky, the concrete jungle and the ants that walked its floors. The Servant had considered the possibility of rethinking what she was about to do. The aversion of the odour that filled the air was sickening, the sins that nipped at the ankles and clung tightly to their hearts. The hypocrisy of others and lies of the rest was all that was needed to make The Servant sure of her actions and convictions. She raised her right hand. A tremendous and grand destructive shock wave tore apart everything in its wake. The buildings fell. The ants were only a reminder. Sins and filth were torn away, and the wave continued. It kept moving and kept growing, encompassing and obliterating all things in its path. The first wave travelled North, then another South, East and West, all organic and mineral alike fell and razed to the ground. The shadows of civilisation would fade into ashes and dust, the ashes and dust that will settle upon the earth once walked.
