A Madman's Song

[Jentos 9425]

 

 

 

This was all, nothing less than a trial.

 

Baneful chants. A choir of or horrors, nothing unlike burning children screaming in some broken flexio. And so, in the undying stairwell of Wieslaw’s mind, a star shattered. The man howled, the man screamed.

 

The inbred bastard ran.

 

On all fours he wailed and cursed, falling down, collapsing many times before regaining his footing. Only to fall again. Like some wounded, dying dog.

 

Not a coin he owned. His clothes, his sword, were not his own. Why, he owned nothing, nothing at all. Yet that sullen, bewitched, soiled head of his was filled with gaping monstrosities, words and concepts of the likes none sane should keep.

 

His flesh, his frame, was of little use to him now. What he needed was courage, what he needed was a truth that could not be found. A book that does not exist. And any man seeking such a thing, should they not be mad? That is a thing I cannot judge.

 

But the state of this individual was quite logical, seeing where now he held his poor frame; amidst the stars. Murmurs had carried him, bleeding, broken. The Heavens had taken his offer.

 

So there he layed, in some place that by any foreign means, cannot be described. A dead place. Grey, some desolate, silent place. A blasphemous place, some hell. Betwixt was flesh and matter, melded into some horrid landscape. And no, I lied. For while the heart, the very spirit of the place was silent, it was only screams that echoed back and forth. A choir of beastly, abhorrent faces, crying out to some heinously ghastly eldritch God. Their words haunting and revolting, some never-ending chant, a cry, a plea for clemency. They howled in abominable verses for the waking of some eerie entity with no end.

 

What Wieslaw Barrow, child of the Crow, had found. Was a God’s grave.

And now his voice was but one to that of the others. He had seen death, he had seen a sea of corpses fleeing a single bird of ash. But this was nothing alike any he had ever witnessed, wretched and foul, broken remainders of some lost hope, yet holy as ever, some terrifying relic to some archaic blessing of yore that was now but a great looming barrow of torturous figures and abominations, hailing forth the coming centuries of pain, years that would never die, presenting but an eternal time of scarring thoughts linked to the hopelessness of the calamitous situation.

 

But Wielsaw knew, Wieslaw understood. What thing this was had died of thirst.

And Gods thirst for the blood of men.

Ave Stella.

 

[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.