On a field of barrows.

[Jentos 9422]

 

“Truth will be the death of men.”

Wieslaw, accursed thing, inbred of a family of bastards, a degenerate thing, a disgusting animal. Why, even his blood wasn't right.

Not even his mind.

But perhaps was there a glimmer, a weak thing, a hope of ascending for the poor thing’s soul?

 

Perhaps not.

 

But the raev had seen the stars, yet again.

In the heart of men had he sat there, amongst rich and poor, amongst the soldiers and the wailing of the women at the dawn of day.

 

And there he had stretched out his arms, calling out to the stars, calling out to what lay beyond, he cried to Owyn, he cried to Godwin and he cried to Horen.

 

And he could not lose, how could he? For God was with him. And always was.

And the stars had listened. And with them he now was.

And once again, he was alone.

 

For who knows what dwells in the madman’s mind?

In a great, broken tearing of reality, some cry of the cosmos echoed as it was pierced, torn, wounded and with a great flash of light and some great maelstrom of cascading arcane energies, Wieslaw emerged. From amidst the cosmos.

 

The skull he kept he cradled, like a fearful child with his toy.

For here, he was alone.

And he was scared.

 

Before him lay a never ending field of tombs, crypts, bones.

The raevir stood motionless, gazing at the great thing, the death and the fear, the dread that ate away at his spirit. At this great, monolith.

An ode to the dead. And feverishly, weakly, Wieslaw slowly brought himself to travel the dark place, his feet were sore, his whole frame shivered, and yet he felt nothing, it was his mind, seeking to turn itself against him. Madness, was always there, it always prodded at him, and at his ancestors, and at his children, and their children too, forevermore.

 

For what else were they, then cursed blood? Destined to die and to be stolen, picking at the locks of death to which they would find no rest.

 

Wieslaw cupped his hands together, limping through the field of death, step by step, he held his gaze high, peering up at the gray, colorless sky that loomed above, for even here, the heavens gave no way, they gave no solace.

Whispers and baneful chants echoed throughout, as the dead murmured to each other, they weep and howled.

 

What a cursed place, wasn’t it? How fitting, for a gravedigger.

The dead men bickered at each other, like some great chant, speaking in broken flexio, like a choir of graves this was.

“Look at him.” one stated in a cold, wretched voice, from the bottom of his grave

“Not even fit to die right.” another added, and the wind picked up, and the cackling of bones could be heard, and so they sang, like some tormented song, they sang of the sea, they sang of the saints, down bellow, and last they sang of the graves. A hole? Are we worth no more?

And as Wieslaw passed more and more, the dead had enough. What was a living worth in the place where the dead remain? His only friend, was the skull he kept, a beautifully decorated thing, which he kept preciously within his bag, yet his friend was silent. He was not worthy, to judge these other corpses.

 

The raevir stopped, and stared down at the graves, clasping his hands together, he simply stood there, among a sea of corpses. He was silent, and the dead men only cried out louder, and their chant slowly came to a halt. And suddenly, they wailed like they previously had, but louder, and louder. Soon the dead clawed at the dirt that kept them beneath the soil, aiming to free themselves from their prison of dirt.

“Run, run!” they called to each other, “Oh, ravenous thing! That broken animal! Brothers, sisters! Begone! Begone! The Black Cardinal has come!”

 

And so they rose, one by one they emerged, shambling bones, restless corpses corrupt and barren, twisted and devilish, some vile spawn, all of them, that fled further into the dark, into the never ending flow of graves. What was to come? What was this thing? This thing that dead men feared?

For what have you to fear when you are dead? What have you to lose?

 

Much, it would seem, for as they said, in here; the dead dance.

 

And Wieslaw stood.

And remained.

 

Truly, he was alone.

For every grave in sight was now empty, holes dotted the land as far as he could see. The graves had not served their purpose.

And he waited.

 

Long minutes passed, and silence yet again conquered the place. And finally, far away, in the distance was a small, dark shape.

 

The crow flew low, and perched itself atop one of the gravestones, staring down at its empty shell right below, and let out a raucous cry. Why, perhaps it is true then, that the crow is the foe of the dead. Ridding them of their flesh, of whatever they possess, if ever, in the eternal flow of time, they ever were to return amongst the living.

But it was a bird, and no more. And cared little for that of the living man.

And so Wieslaw watched, as the animal made its way from grave to grave, amongst the millions that dotted the landscape.

 

The man of flesh sat down, he had not uttered a single word. Nor could he. For this place belonged to the dead, he dared not disturb them. Yet the crow yet still made its gruesome song. Going from grave to grave in its fruitless journey. Wieslaw watched the bird with a risen brow, and smiled a vile smile. His hand searched the ground, and his hand only left the ground with a stone in hand. He gave a single, last glimpse to the crow, before chucking the stone at it’s head.

 

With a small cracking noise, the bird was dead. It’s neck was broken, quite destroyed. And yet it still moved, for this was a place for the dead, was it not? But now, what was there that a dead bird had to hunt? Nothing. So the dead crow stared up at the sky, and with a few beats of its wings, flew off, high up and far, far into the sky until it was lost amidst the sulfurous and gray clouds that dotted the place.

 

He was alone now, truly. And before him stood a never-ending row of empty graves.

And a spark soon was lit into the madman’s mind.

He walked up atop what seemed to him as the tallest of the hills that sat around the land of graves, which were now empty of its former inhabitants, who’d now vanished further away.

 

And in the highest of these graves, he released the most precious skull he kept, down into the pit.

There stood the remnants of a bygone ancestor, now with a field of graves, for him alone.

And the skull grinned, as all do. For the dead now has nothing to fear.

And Wieslaw smiled, and turned back.

It was time to **** off.

[OzYmandi 647]

((Stop doing awesome posts, idiot.))

[__WaterFox__ 636]

((This may actually be the only character piece on the forums I actually enjoyed reading

[osumanduas 1442]

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.