Memory of the Provident

[Swqrclan 188]

 

An old man walks a desert of ash - somewhere, a place and time not known. The last mile was particularly long, particularly harrowing-- because he took witness to a shadeful tree, alive even if clinging to it, in the far distance. A haven to rest in, before the coming peace.

At its base he settles, his breathing a rattle. Beyond him he witnessed a horizon that bled the color of fire; a ring of flame was pinned to the sky where the sun should be, its scorned radiance turning as the moon itself blotted out the center of its being. In his settling, the old man took witness to an eclipse --  when the moon encroaches upon the visage of the sun to alert the world of great and sudden change.

 

Its glorious, if distant blaze set the brightness of amber upon his similarly-colored eyes of the Dragonsblood; and then he closed them to finally feel rest, and dream of a better time.

 

…

 

“There are few of them, now … something so unusual. Like how one would notice if birds did not occupy the sky anymore, or if the raw earth was not filled with bugs. The dead who walk have faded, become scarce under the guidance of fate, under the light of the Eclipse. They have been… bound to the world, since men conceptualized violence. But now I see what few are left in this wasteland stumbling, slowing, stiff … nearing death. The sky burns with great change; something has occurred, and now rest has come.

 

I have … fought them, controlled them. Propped them back up, pushed them toward evils, and then turned around to liberate them from barbarity. I have marched across the world five times and more to lands now lost to us with them; we struck at Dragon Gods, and dark scourges, and our own. I painted them black, and then red to give them a face they had lost. When death often neared, I knew it would not for them, and that they would carry on my convictions.

But now one struggles at my feet; I feel it now. Close to death, choked upon ash, it moves the buried arm I mistook as a risen root. It has no power to devour me, only expire away in finality of what it endured. The… Age, of Undeath, has come to a close. Am I to follow?

 

I've, seen things ... countless people wouldn't believe.

Thousands of men set upon fire, yet frozen to death, off the shoulder of the Old North.

I watched--... stormless lightning bolts, glitter in the dark, above burning Aegis.

All those ... moments, will be lost... in fire. Like tears, in rain.”

 

…

 

The old man opens one eye - the good one - to witness the Eclipse again. Cracked, dry lips curve into a brief, crooked grin, hidden away by overgrown hair of black dyed gray. 

 

Spoiler

“Not yet.”

 

[Skylez 870]

♫♪♫♪

Memory of the Dead

 

((Credit to myself))

 

A twisted soul walks an endless plane. Leagues upon leagues had been traversed thus far however no end was in sight to the pilgrimage across the realm of the forsaken. There were many there with him, of varying dimensions and demeanor. It was maddening, residing in a place where he was ultimately not meant to be in.

More of the spirits had manifested in Ebrietaes over the coming years. This was natural, yet not at this rate. Spirits that were once taken and twisted into the cruelty of being Undead. Stalkers of both blade and spell, dreaded knights, revenants, statues of foreign rock, and furthermore. These things that once roamed the normal realms now linger in this cursed one. Perhaps some mass crusade had been called upon them, he ruminated. He felt pity for them, for none but the truly wicked should have to find home in Ebrietaes, such as the Horned Lord.

He feels for the tattered, ruined shawl that was tight about his neck and shoulder. These dead could have been his brethren during his long past time as a knight-stalker. The Redshrouds which were lorded by Ipos. Yet now most were mindless, the remnants of their willpower tarnished shortly after coming to the plane. They were enemies now, the mindless dead that could not find reason or final respite but in battle.

The shrouded spirit bears his weapon, as he had countless times before.

[Abyssus 487]

Yldrathir remembers the mad Abdiel
 

 

[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.