It's an old song, it vibrates beneath my skin, it lulls me to sleep at the darkest of nights, it's my armour against tragedies. Time has seen what become of a tale long forgotten, tattered and ragged through dust and Web of treachery. The question y...
The echoes of time rang a haunting melody, the memories of tiny splinters breaking apart, a looming sword, it stung where rested her soul. Something shattered from beyond the lands of men. Mind tattered. Eyes closed. Perhaps forever.
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Era of dikastíria, Eraundexelle, 2223.
The winds were tantalizing as they whisked away the fallen leaves, gigantically tall trees stood intimidatingly with their branches entwined. A lost old beaten path, etched in stone with impressions of rust and adversities of time. The vast canopy above restricted any source of light to illuminate the dreaded jungle. A few vacant voids managed to escape the poisonous vines only to scatter red glow in patches. The moon dreadful of what was to come.
Rhea felt it in her bones, the winds had long abandoned their course, going berserk as the hour of night descended with nightmares taunting the eyes that slept. The silence of the wild was liberating. The moon above all the more fierce, its hues that of a brave bleeding heart, tormented with crimson as the lunar eclipse dug its claws.
Her heart grew heavy with every step she took close to home, soul itching, goosebumps, somethings at the back of her mind kept echoing, something daunting that rose her hackles, something was...
The silence of jungle had been interrupted as chants grew fierce in the distance, chants of power, summoning and horror. It's hymn's curse etched in the darkness of night and bound to the misery of moon, the souls dwelling below, in the lands of fire, of hate and of evil, lost forever, never to be called in flesh again, bound to this night of blood, to the pledge of time. For they always to claim a soul.
Her eyes wandered, tiny specks shadowed with red of moon, a haunting lullaby came up front, piercing the clouds of clarity and so settled in her gut, the certainty, to move forward, compelled to do so.
Mist may swallow, Remaing are the peices of soul, Hollow and whole, Than only shall weep the mole, And soon comes sorrow, To swallow you whole.
It was the voice. It clasped her mind. Slithered past edges to embed it's claws deep. And the fear? It had been long lost. Her mind no longer her own. Like a roach inflicted with animosity of the wasp. The hum of its melody rang, loosening the hold clasped tight, the vines of magik strong.
It all came down to collapse on the single fragment of her mind, the winds howling, the wild wronged with the claim of death, moon bloodied red and the thumping of dread, not so far ahead.
Even from the far expanse, she could inscribe the scene of horror. Three elders. One shepherd. One small girl. And mud full of ash. Of blood and gore. Engraved upon which settled a spell of old.
