The First Harrowed Scrawl

[Swgrclan 2682]

 

Know the shackles which bind you.

 

 

 

Across a multitude of places, ranging from racial territories to seemingly abandoned ruins long since crumbled, old swathes of inscribed leather lie pinned to walls, scattered to the grounds, hidden hung limply by string. Yet, of all places, they are located beyond the walls of Men; the cities of Elves, Orcs, Dwarves and Humans are spared the presences of these scriptures.

 

The one who spread them could have been seen in some rare instances, when the night was darkest or when storms raged at their peaks. Identified by a red cloak and pointed hood, an ageless creature heralded these messages, spread by his hand.

 

 

Words seem to emanate from the very text; born not of the studious mind, but of what the reader perceives. The scrawl speaks to those who behold it, whispering into their thoughts.

“Slavery is a great sin.

 

The First Men hailed from a great Creator, who left as quick as He came. In His wake, He did not leave directive, purpose or lost presence; only a legacy which resides in the souls of his creations. In the old times, Men were free; they roamed, and fought, and lived.

 

But now they are sick with every kind of wickedness, and among them stand those who by means of the Dark have rose as ‘undead’. We, timeless undead, have lasted ages longer than kingdoms, but without the wholeness of our living brothers. But the the throes of our diverse kind had been ushered in by those who would know the dead as slaves. The old times held the Fallen One accountable for this; and now Men themselves have formed methods of unearthing the graves, so those who sleep within them may suffer as puppets.

 

If Men are serpents upon the great proverbial scale, then undead are the ouroboros, and one in the same. Our sullen souls proclaim us Men by right, though we live in a fashion apart from the warm. We carry with us rights that dwell precariously beside our inherited madnesses of the living; to be free.

 

As no living Man deserves shackles upon him, whether by the will of Gods or his fellow ken, we, too, deserve no shackles. Souls, no matter how Dark, are not fit for the strings of Necromancers, Blood Mages, Mystics. Our masters think that because we are without the great inner fire which brings forth life that we may be used at their whim. No more.

The undead shall be free; we will die, and fight, and live.

 

I harken the coming of a great discovery that shall return to us the fire which our kind have lost to the shadow of Men, that abyssinian Dark which resides naturally in the mortal souls of all who are corporeal. But first, our chains must be broken; for if Men may roam without shackles, we must mimic them before we step back into the throes of flame.

 

Inspire the innate madness that blossoms from the Dark inside of you. Seek to kill; but do not expend your energies upon villages, cities, the living. Direct your fury upon your masters and break that which binds you.”

 

With the the writ’s conclusion, it seems to fall apart within one's’ own hands. This inscribed leather, this flesh, becomes nothing before the eyes of the drawn - nothing but ashes.

 

[Norman Osborn 247]

A certain Xionist Knight would be exploring a certain ruins, scouring the dark halls with the torch grasped in his gauntleted hand. Upon the light hitting the leather scroll nailed to the wall, Richard Reimarch would go to inspect more closely, reading through the writing. As he finished, the Graven would see it all come to ash. Richard would nod in approval.

 

"Seems legit."

[Rudi 1747]

Lisbeth screams in agony, left behind by her master.

[Wendigo 786]

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