Forsaken to a Feast

[Matheus 559]

 

An yet un-fully kindled candle lingers beneath the face of humanity, a darkened flame sprouted from its top. Its darkened flame fueled only by the spilled blood of the decedent races, its occupation of the depths unseen; slowly spreading its charred wings. Cloaked only by the darkened hue of the shadows from above. The flames not with bared fangs itself, the flames not with a will of its own, nor a concentrated sight of its own.  The debauched flame would remain untouched at its core, those whom try extinguish it, kissed by its crackling end. Its feigned up-heaved attack dealt with great consistency.

Shed blood now begins to tinge its ends once more, the flame eating away upon the aggressive desires of mortals.

 

A hollowed, volley of footfalls could be heard with greater frequency than the last of prolonged moments, its shambling pattern whisked together into a bloodied tale.Clank, clank, clank. The precise rhyme would give life to somebody’s attention, one clearly not at fortune's favor. A forecast of their soon to be demise. Clank, CLANK, CLANK! Would be the heightened whispers of the resonating undead, not with that of mortal tongue, but with actions only they may perform without a conscious stained of pitiful guilt.

Those of forsaken flesh care not of humanity, but only to seek sustenance for their own un-living.

 

A sole soul lingers ignorantly upon the road of shambles tonight, his presence being of no significance to any of his kin about. Only to those who seek his harvested conclusion. The withering feet would once more grind harshly upon the ground's grainy surface within each cycle, its sound would be up-heaved in volume amidst the mortal’s eardrums. His attention, as dictated would be piqued, his head turning to its source. The source would not be one of pleasantry, the man’s eyes would widen, tripling its occupied space beneath his brow bone. The sight before him would be as the bloody prophecy had always been for these creatures; flesh would be forcefully torn from its rightful place, the crimson essence seeping out through the mortal shell's cracks. Again, and again this would repeat. The once unsullied bodies of the descendants would lay beneath the man’s sight, though not without company. The man would care not to get a better grasp, his feets’ soles would already grasp tightly upon the gravel road, making a desperate, instinctive escape. So that the dreaded sight would relinquish by the woven distance, whenever he would muster the remnants of his courage to steal a glance back.

A singular thought would dash through the man’s mind, with repeated attention to its lettering… “Ghouls…”

[Angmarzku 1251]

The ghouls wobble with unhuman grunts and groans around the realm, searching for sentient beings to feast upon. Expiravit the abomination would join the horde with horrific screeches of his snake-like mouth, his rusted armour creaking upon his shambling frame's movements.

[Salvo 1852]

"Not the bone courtiers..." whispers a stressed, fearful old crusader.

[Rickson 302]

Ferenath the Ghoul joins in the horde, letting out groans as his rotting body pulls itself along.

[Elad™ 560]

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