Closure

[GloriaPreussens 798]

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

A dark clad figure rode west, atop a heavyset horse bred for charges and bearing plates of beaten iron, bare save for a saddlebag and a sword slung loosely about the saddle, a figure in burnished dark plate covered in a mottled cloak rode by a starlight, in a land once thriving now a monument to the sins of lunacy and greed. The valleys once vibrant now black and dead, casting shadows with teeth and horns, black souls burnt into the crumbling walls of houses, not a bird sung nor a deer walked the grass choked of life.

Yet for all the life gone eyes still watched, ghosts of the past, voices echoing, and the sounds of children playing in a land now dead, frozen and black. Feeling sick so soon, the figure brought the mask up over his face, shutting his eyes a moment, his horse whinnying and braying, fighting to turn he’d quickly dismount and let his steed run free, pulling his sword free from the saddle to walk the haunted streets of a dead city.

 

Shivering despite himself, the rider would proceed on foot through the crumbling ruins, turning suddenly at what he thought was child laughing, draws his blade from the sheathe, aurum reflecting black starlight as he saw. . . Nothing, just his imagination. . .

 

Further steps down the uneven steps, the reminder of a madman too obsessed with his own power, he blew up his own city, his own people, their souls trapped, a shout, no- a shriek caught his ear, hairs standing on end as he shivered again, feeling cold, looking down a ruined alleyway, the remains of a poor soul crushed, he knelt in the thannic snow, saying a quiet prayer for the deceased, shadows playing in the corner of his eyes.

 

Warry and trodding with soft steps the figure paced openly down an avenue, the ruins of a once great arch now crumbled, a statue of a rider atop a chariot split in twine, further ahead, a pillar stood alone, the carved letter faded now in time, and just a few paced more the steps to what was once the center of the world, now just a grave, painful memory of what was. . .

Not daring step further, knowing souls worse than he encountered lay trapped inside, the man pulled off his hood, and his mask, pursing his lips and hardening his gaze, grey eyes scanning the ruins, then to a side passage, seeing what he knew would be there, the man set off, prying loose a frozen door, unlocked with a rusted iron key, he descended steps into the bowels of the earth.

 

Quiet, a suffocating silence engulfed him, unnatural in nature the stones were cracked and uneven, yet no moss or life grew even here, several stories beneath the ruins as he came into a tomb, old candles lay in dried puddles, and row upon row of tomb lay undisturbed, decades later, he walked among the bones of kin. The quiet grew heavier on him in the darkness, barely able to see but a few feet ahead, he knew a torch would only reveal little, and trod further, deeper into a place cursed by madness and hunger.

 

A timeless venture into the dark came to an end as he neared his location, a tomb in a newer passage, carved after the other cavities had been hewn from the earth with artisans hands now long dead and forgotten due to the actions of a single madman, name now cursed. As he neared the stoned, placed with care he sunk to his knees, taking off his glove to run his fingers over the name carved in the stone, whispering to not but the suffocating dark, breaking it with a silent, “Father-” not daring speak more.

With a bowed head and shut eyes he let a few wet tears roll down his face, the first he’d shed since a boy in the care of harsh monks who too oft resorted to a switch on a child simply full of life, one whose father had never been able to see his son grow, and whose mother abandoned him. A warmth filled the man, though he knew not if from thanhium poisoning or something else, he cared little at the moment.

 

Resting a hand on the tomb, he said a quiet prayer, taking a rose from his bag, the only living thing to grace this land besides himself, and the shadows of life haunting the streets. A single red rose, perfect in detail, the only one laid at the tomb, and a goodbye to a father who’d been ripped from the life of his son.

Standing, swallowing heavy the figure gathered himself, running his fingers along the name carved one last time before setting off, the quiet no longer suffocating, and the shadows of the streets holding no sway over him, the dark clad man pulled his mask up once again, and his hood over his head, quickly departing the Monument to the Sins of Mankind, his mind finally at ease.

[monkeypoacher 8055]

((w-whoa

 

this is unlike you

[Mj. 697]

((Tl;dr?))

[Balthasar 2497]

(This is deep man)

[mitto 2312]

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

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.