"If I am mad, it is mercy!"

[Callistus 989]

 

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

“A r e  y o u  c o l d . .  e l d e r  o n e ?”

 

Horror. A mirage of visions, tainting sights and distorting the mind. Attainment, or fulfilment. A fool’s paradise, some pretentious arcadia. Contradictions; an unsightly pandemonium.

 

K̴̰̲̰̦̠͓̳̰̪̞͔̩̥̳̖͈͉͖͎͙̍̃̈́̎͂̓͑́͑͆̀̀̆̔̈́̍̅̌͌̽̆̔͌̐̿̑̔͋͆́͋̽͂̕͘̕͠͠ͅnowledge and̴̢̫͈̯̣̰̗̫̝͙̬̘̭͍̤̙͈͇̗̜͒̑̎̽̎͗̅̽͋́̄̿̀̒̉̋͐͐͘͜͝ madṉ̵̜͖̥͈̳͈͎͖̏͆͐̓̈́͛̿̐͘͘ess are ở̵̢̛̛̮̝̲̪̮͇̯͓̖̫̘͚̞͉͇̼̝̯͓̮̟̇̎̃͋̃̂͐͊̾̒͛̅̒̏̇͗̑͑͌̅̄̅̉̈̎̄͋̈́̅̈̂̽̆͋̐̎͌͑͂̈́̄͐̌͊̓͆̒̈̅̿̀́͆͋̿̌̀̒̌̄̈́̌́̀̈́́̀̏͘̕̚̕̚̚͘͝͝͠͝͝͝ͅne of̴̢͚̦͎͔̖̹͖̪̦̖͕̼̖̫̆́̍̊̋͑́̒̍̍͊͂̾̇͘͠ͅ the same. Delve ţ̷̡͈͖̲̙̫̞͔̲̦̰͓̬͕̜̖̰͓̝̲͍̍̃̅͂̆̋̈̒̈͌̍̾̋͂̀̈́̇̐̽̌̾̈̆̕̚͘͝͝͠͝ͅoo dę̸̡̖͖͎̹̺͕̮̥̪͓͚̯͖̥͓̠̫̳̮̓̏̈́̅̓̾̂̈͛̊̇̒̒̿̃̽̑́̈́͋́̓̎̈́̚̚͘͘͜͠ͅep, and you shal̶̢̥̼̬̤̼͖̺͙̬̱̬̬͈͚̪͔̣̫̬̓̆̐̾̔̍̍̊̇̈́͆̇̃̾̇͝ͅl never ę̴̝̖͖̭͙̯̬͈̦̖̮̭̹̻͇͎͉͉̗̲̩͇̣͂͑̅̽ͅm̷̰͈̬͕̤͕̹͇̘̬͉͈̳̻̺̮̠̱̥͕̟̪̩̊̆̾̔́͒̀̐̃̇̈̐͆͛̍̕̕͜͠͝͠͝ͅerge.

 

One, weary man, a sufferer of the great war, a gravedigger, a bastard born of a negligent maiden and a mad father, and a man who bent forbidden sacraments woven of virgins’ blood; Emreis, a man so accursed and drownt in wretch that the gods had deemed him undeserving of a fair death, and so he stood, clustered of the psyche and mind. Hedged in a strange dread of that which he could not see, nor hear. Indeed, he was distraught. He believed himself to be some freak, a sort of an aberration, a half–mad creature through whom the gods — or the devil — may begin howling suddenly. Or he may abruptly keel over in a trance, lifeless of the body and glassy-eyed, only to recover from the unseen realm of myth with some preposterous demand, not at all in keeping with conventional civil manners. The man’s primitive fealty is to the spectral dimensions, not to the civilisation.

 

He lay awake in the midst of an obscured bog, traversed from the earthly ground by rites he had chosen to meddle in, but should not have. For, was it not known, that not everything is for man to dabble in, and not every bloodlet scribing is meant to be unearthed? Is it not prevalent, that the preternatural and those who skulk under its umbrae, are not to be incensed, or provoked? Oh, but man’s curiosity had often led to their own demise. And it is by their own rash insight, that they tramp and raze their very own destinies, to dust and fallen ashes.

 

But there, in another unearthly dimension, a marsh bristled, and a man counted his deeds. A peculiar wind whistled through its very pith. That man, a planeswalker of the olden remnants; a man so old, his age had turnt him unto an utterly raving lunatic, was shaken. To his relicly bones, and to an unbeating heart that cradled within his frame. He shivered, from what he saw. The vile blood in his veins boilt and churned within dying nerves, petrified by the foul gore that lay in place of the mud, in that cryptic swamp, in an unknown cosmos, far removed from any of the ill-meant monks. But he was flustered. Abashed by that which he had blindly witnessed. He knew not of what aggravated him, but it swept at his skin, touched his life.

 

He sat there, fondling a limb he had torn of a pagan man. For although he was a man of many heresies himself, he feared God. He sinned, he cursed, and he stole, but yet held a great reverence for he who lies in the edge of the skies, throned. In hopes that one day, such a god, if he existed, would grant him salvation. But what was it that shook this star, instilled such fear in a man so dilapidated by age? What secrets do these realms harbour, that we do not know of? Ghouls, Vodniks. . yet, no. Something else thrived, astir within the fields of these woods. It had been roused from its slumber. The stench of gutters was rife, the carcasses of butchered dogs were lynched from atop high trees. The man, frothing in the mouth, drank of a decoction that would soothe the ache. But he would then be frozen, stiff in place. He didn’t move. He couldn’t have. But time flew, and so did he. He shunted, and split that planetoid. For the second time, he fled the monstrosities that soared the cosmos, the otherworldly forces that would seize any chance to latch unto the man, and tear him apart, feed him to dying stars, or the craving chasms that dine on stars.

 

Soon, the man had found himself upon a sinister crypt, deep within its forsaken ruins. An empty catacomb. But, as he looked around, they weren’t intact. In the sense that, every tomb was without its slab. They were pushed over, some broken, others nowhere to be seen. Old skulls, barren of flesh, of botched and murdered men, were glaring. The seer trod on, and glanced at the first of them. It was an unrecognizable cranium, mutilated beyond recognition. Mere bones, ground to smithereens. The next few were of the same. But as he advanced, the faces seemed more and more fresh. Their faces could now be discerned, corpses identified. They were of men and young women. All of whom had met their demise at the wretch’s own hands. He resumed the walk, unfazed, if only a little. Faces that were battered by rocks, others that were etched upon by broken daggers. Then, at the end of the walk, rested children. Infants, stillborns whom he had unknowingly killed within the wombs of their ravaged mothers. He reached down, to touch the babe, but it slowly scattered, and he could hear only its miserable cries.

Guilt. It wrapped the man, like a pelt of his own, flayed skin.

 

A madman can only kill so many, until he sees the blood on his hands.

 

[Parker 390]

“Yet.. there is still a madman who roams the streets of Ves... his cleaver shines.. with the glint of red.” a poor farmer, says.

[osumanduas 1442]

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

 

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