Masked

Deep below the Lightlands' eternal warmth, sealed away far beneath the stone halls of an ancient monastery, further and deeper and darker... there, you meet him.

Initially, he appears to you as a normal Imperial — well, something shaped like one, at least. His voice booms in your mind. Hello, child.

His body is hardy visible, and it seems to meld into the shade surrounding him. Of course it does; the light is hardly a place for such a being to reside in.

Do you find this frightening, child? You do, in fact, find it frightening — and in perfect response to these thoughts, one head rises up from the first one, as if it’d always been hidden under there. It is not grotesque, but clean: the shadows simply split off, and the second head stands above the other, masked like the first.

Of course it is not grotesque. We are perfect, ascended beings. It cannot be grotesque. Another head appears, this one above the second. It happens just as quickly. You cannot see anything of its face, save for the plain, white mask covering it, but you know for sure that it is from this head's mouth the liquid shadows spill and drip onto the second head’s mask. What a mess. No, it is not.

It is as things should be: they rise up and fall down. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. See the truth before you. For a split second, you believe you see many more heads rise from each other, endlessly, into the sky — their glowing eyes forming a Perfect rainbow of color. The shadows have stretched so far now that all you see are the masks. You’re not sure if you’re only imagining all the other heads, but a few must be certain. Of course they must. Have I not told you that this is the truth? Five become four, four become three, three become two. The masks fall down as the heads lower themselves into each other again, and all you now see is the one head, still staring at you.

This is the Masked Emperor. This is Perfection.