They Beckon

[Treshure 5817]

 

From the desecrated winds of the Dread Lands, a soft whisper carried throughout the Fringe. They carried a soft song, a music to one’s ear and a herald of doom upon another’s.

 

The Cult of Iblees stood before the long abandoned archway to a land most unholy, where dark things lurked undisturbed. They had ventured from it’s protective grasp and felt the full consequence, for they were unprepared fledglings. Even when empowered by unholy entities alike they could not defend against the hordes of midgets that desecrated their holdings.

 

But like a mother to it’s child, the eery lands of the Dread Knights of past offered their harrowed arms to the weary travelers. They went through the gate, and with a quick motion of levers, it’s gates once more implanted their spikes into the soil. Again, dark things could occur in a land where they were not actively driven out of.

 

The shrilled whispers they sent from the Fortress in construction were not of destruction or impending attack, not of a warning or to scare. It was a voice that rebounded throughout the hollow shells of Dread Knights throughout the Fringe, denizens whom’s faith to their “holy” deity questionable, to those who did not serve a righteous path. They beckoned, they called, they invited them back to the lands of where Dread, Doom, and Death was forged.

 

Where they were not to be persecuted for their beliefs, hung on burning crosses or pummeled into the ground by savage axes; a haven that was to be forged out of spite for those whom had.

It’s small cry turned into a roar, the wind carrying the demands of those who called them back.

“Come home.”

[Elindor 666]

((too many "once more"s in paragraph 3))

[Treshure 5817]

((too many "once more"s in paragraph 3))

 

((I knew something was ****y, didn't realize it. Fixed, and thank you.))

[Tsuyose 3285]

 A figure in blue and onyx glared towards the iron gates, a singular eyebrow arched as he sat upon the mountains over-looking the Dread lands. A faint smile forming in upon his lips; eyes narrowed as his glare followed the cultists. His jaws part, releasing all but a hushed whisper.

 

"Perhaps it's time I took more interest in them.."

 

The figure murmurs, hand tightening around a withered, dead staff with a skull on top, jaws locked agape. He sluggishly brings himself up, spare palm pressing against the earth and stone below as he made his way alongside the mountain, and eventually -- dispersing.

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

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