The Ambience Of The Eye

[Treshure 5818]

The evening was calm, cool, and peacocking it's last violet colors into the night sky. On a crimson stained battlefield, figures in deep blue robes strode across the lawn of grass, picking up bodies and slowly moving them back to the keep. Their bodies were covered all but their heads, and mournful expressions did they bear that night. They as a body scrubbed the grass free of it's heavy burden, washing it down with buckets of well water.

 

After the moving of bodies and cleansing of fields took place, they all took place around the ritual site. It still teemed with energy from the previous summoning, where a Being not even they could ancticipate was torn from it's realm, and thrown into tho the Fringe to be forced to exact the Cultists' will. But it was a trade, and it must of been done.

 

No sacrifices took place that night. No screams echoed into the night sky nor did the crackling of bones and searing of flesh could be heard, not even as a whisper. If one were to watch, he'd think it strange. Instead of decaying bodies in a hopeless pit, propped up bodies were there. And the deep stained red from their armor were removed, and each dent dinged out.

 

They were perfect lifeless embodiments of time. Mirrors were hung before the ritual site, as each Cultist took out a skinny blade. It could not even penetrate the weakest of plate. They turned the blade and stuck it in the ground, all looking up to the mirrors. To themselves. This ritual was a reflection. Zemophrenis ringed out, and soon to follow, the rest of the Cult.

 

"There are many paths to tread,

And roads to take,

Before the flame is fed,

All collapse into a firey lake."

 

A blue flame started it's way up to the pyre. It skimmed along the glass panes, and engulfed the fallen warriors. It was a dim color, matching the fading blue of the sky. A strange serenity fell before the group. The eery song of the Cultists began once more.

 

"There are many paths to tread,

And roads to take,

Before we reach the end of time,

And into our master's wake."

 

Zemophrenis's face hung low, raising to scan the circle gathered before them. A thin scar ran along his cheek, not the only testament to the brutality of war. He was no teenager anymore, who attested to Iblees's Will through desperate letters to colleagues. He was a commander in speech and warfare, now. He shifted his head to the funeral pyre, where fallen brethren lay.

And he wondered why this must be.

What a harsh world he had thrust himself into. Only the music of their souls can remedy the dead. And so they sang, and so they sang.

 

"There are many paths to tread,

And roads to take,

Before we reach our rest,

before we reach our rest.

 

There are many paths to tread,

And roads to take,

before light can come,

And peace could we make."

[_pok_ 1768]

"awesome" a man says

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.