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A Vision in the Night


AlphaMoist
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Art by Chris Cold

 

A man walked down a decrepit path, worn and beaten down with time. Screams and cries for help surrounded this road, echoing louder and louder with each step taken. A glance to the right revealed a putrid looking being, unholy in nature. Its gaunt, naked form loomed over the body of an elven woman whose nasally breaths were drowned out by her whimpers and sobs. This creature, entirely black in color, save for the numerous splotches of bloody crimson that soak its leathery skin, bore no eyes, no nose or ears. In fact, its entire body lacked any defining traits at all, save for two exceptions: the long, slender claws that were far too large to fit comfortably against its fingers, and the wicked, gleeful grin held against its face. 

 

Its mouth nearly unhinged as it released a maniacal, shrill screech that could, if one relaxed their definition of the word, perhaps be described as laughing. Once the creature’s maw had opened as wide as possible, a set of razor wire teeth began to writhe out of its gums, ripping through its own flesh in order to be exposed to the outside air. The woman’s sobbing intensified as the being tore through her flesh, its teeth ripping into her throat as its clawed digits sank into her abdomen. Her eyes widened as her hysterical screaming gave way to choked, gurgled gags of misery and pain. Her body began to convulse and spasm underneath the creature as it devoured her alive, however the sparks of life shining within her pupils refused to die. 

 

She stared helplessly as the man continued on his way. The only hint of acknowledgement that came from him was a simple, subtle nod, as if he had some forbidden sense of knowledge of the fate that awaited her.

 

As he continued walking, the man took a glance to his left, and this revealed a city of near endless magnitude. So large, it would make even Helena look akin to a Dwarf among Ologs. This expensive city was so enormous, so beautiful, that the flames encompassing it replaced the sun entirely, making the midnight landscape glow a violent orange. The city’s buildings fed the flames as if they were a baby suckling their mother’s teat, the residents resting within being the nutritious milk that only caused the roaring inferno to grow and swell with power and might. The man felt as if he were bearing witness to something beautiful, and this city was a burning beacon that beckoned him closer.

 

And so the man turned, and he ventured into this city. As he grew closer, he could see hundreds of those black creatures running through the city streets. They clawed their way through broken doors, they slammed their bodies into glass windows, and they paved the roads with a viscous, crimson ichor originating from the citizens captured within their grasps. One would perhaps be able to call them merciful with how quickly they slaughtered the city’s inhabitants, if it weren’t for the fact that every resident disemboweled just refused to die. Their throats could be crushed and caved in, their hearts could be torn through their chests, their brains and organs could cake the sidewalks, but their souls remained latched to their bodies, the life in their eyes refusing to die, just as the woman before.

 

Some may call these creatures monsters. Daemons. Evil incarnate. However, somehow, some way, the man knew better. Saviors, they were. Saviors to the Damned, teaching lessons the man, the Prophet, could never hope to educate the people with during his life. As for the citizens? The inhabitants of this city, the residents of the homes burning in hellfire? Transgressors. All of them. Every man, woman, human, elf, dwarf and uruk he took note of did not plead innocence, no. They were crying for forgiveness. Begging to be given another chance. Each and every single damned one of them were guilty of something. Of what? It was not up to the Prophet to decide. Frankly, he did not care.

 

As the Saviors sprinted past the Prophet, they threw burning bottles of alcohol against everything not already baking in an fiery, yellow light. They whooped and hollered, cheering in some foreign tongue about a victory over Descendantkind. Their words sang of dead kings and toppled empires, and the howls of the tortured Transgressors was their symphony, their chorus. 

 

It was then that the Prophet took a moment to look at himself for the first time since he became conscious of this reality. A lavish jacket made of white leather donned his body, boasting such a pure glow that he had never seen before. A dark tunic rested beneath his overcoat, matching with a set of equally dark trousers. Darker boots covered his feet, their bottoms having been worn down comfortably so. 

 

The Prophet took a look at his hands, and this is what sparked his interest. Wispy, shadowy appendages rested where his digits once were affixed. Wandering towards a broken window, he peered at his reflection, the flames of mayhem working well enough to brighten his view. His face, once elven and mortal in nature, had become entirely replaced with the same black substance that made up the Saviors. At first he thought he lacked a mouth, however he realized that with enough effort, he could forcibly rip his lips apart and suck in a generous helping of the  smoldering air surrounding him. Had he not even been breathing this entire time? 

 

The Prophet continued his observations, looking deeply into the soft, glowing orange orbs that replaced his eyes. He hadn’t blinked once since he came to, he realized. Touching his face with his hands, he noticed sharp protrusions beginning to slide out of the tips of his fingers: talons, razor sharp talons. What had he become? He pondered this as he turned, having now noticed that the howls of the Transgressors had faded away. Soft whimpers and gurgles remained, but the choir had most certainly finished its singing.

 

Before the Prophet were thousands of Saviors, all staring at him. He knew not what they thought, nor what they wanted, but their actions spoke louder than any words they could have produced. In unison, as if they were all one being entirely, they got down on a single knee, and they bowed their misshapen heads.

 

It remained unclear to the Prophet if this was a sign of respect, worship, or some sort of mockery, but as he shifted his gaze upwards, to the night sky above himself, he bore witness to a figure of untold size and magnitude. 

 

The figure gracing the aether above held an incomprehensible shape, and its gaze caused the Prophet unfathomable pain. He welcomed this. As whatever made up his eyes bled from its sight alone, the Prophet’s lips twisted and curved into a smile most genuine. The beauty this immense being held was beyond divinity, and yet cursed and unholy all at the same time. Soon, he too was on his knees, and the Saviors among him shared in his bloody weeping. His vision began to blur, his head searing with unimaginable torture, the crimson ichor donning the streets now leaking from every pour and orifice within the Prophet’s body. His white jacket turned red, and as he began to convulse and spasm, he fell onto the hot, ash ridden street below himself. His vision faded entirely, and he welcomed the all encompassing darkness that came afterwards like a son welcomes his Mother’s embrace. He felt safe, satisfied. He felt a love that was unknown to him before.

 

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Salvare woke up with a gurgly cough, finding himself laying against the stone floor within his room. He spat a rancid mixture of blood, bile, and Amber out of his mouth, wincing from the stinging pain he felt within his skull. He rested in a faint puddle of blood, long since dried a dirty brown color. Bringing a hand to his head, he felt the pitch black scab beneath his hair from where he was struck. He glanced to his right, examining the bed he originally fell asleep upon, its blankets, sheets, and pillows all strung a mess. Looking down at his old brown robes, the stench of dried vomit infiltrated his nose, causing him to cringe in disgust. The aching in his muscles he felt as he stood up, and the profound dizziness lingering his senses, were the last remnants of the violent seizure he must have endured in his slumber. 

 

Salvare released a slow sigh, moving to his door. He slowly felt each and every lock installed against the entrance, all twenty, before he took a step backwards in contemplation. Checking the door for any and all insecurities, he eventually gave a slow nod of satisfaction and approval. 

 

Turning once again, Salvare moved through his room, edging closer to the darkest, unlit corner. He sat upon the stone with his legs crossed, and he stared at the feminine figurine before him: an idol, a tool of focus. The black statue was made of cold marble, and it held no discernible features other than the tattered, broken wings against its back, and the two long, sharpened horns curving upwards above Her head. 

 

The Dark Messiah stared at the figurine for several long moments, his duly lit yellow hues unblinking entirely. He sucked in a deep breath of cold air, releasing it slowly and carefully, removing all distractions from his broken mind. Once achieving a semblance of peace, his eyelids fluttered closed, and he began a long session of praying and meditation.

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