A Wretched Excerpt

[Sorcerio 4594]

Dreary and low lay the heavens upon that erred autumn eve, the oaks wailing as the biting wind kissed their branches and boughs—the fields rend cold and dead. The farmfolk of the region had all but retired, seeking fellowship within taverns along with halfwits and sots, for the day was nigh done, and the sun had retreated behind the veil of grey cloud. Though much gaiety was to be had in that concourse, not all indulged in such activities of merriment and camaraderie, for some few instead connived to partake of a more decadent enterprise, one which was rooted in sorcery and heretical scrawlings found in pagan temples from which the indwellers of that bourg were barred. 

 

Still, fell curiosity had already been seeded within their minds—ergo they stole away to deep nooks within the earth, so that they might evoke their practices away from the gaze of the uncouth peasantry. Now, all convened within the dark alcoves of that sodden crypt, they entreated the dissident invocation before their bound hecatomb, flesh kneading over flesh and strewn across bone. Echoing wails pervaded those sunless caverns, the pleading cries of men resounding in chorus, exhorting the powers of God to descend and offer reprieve—but woe to them, for the angels did not dare harken the beckons to that low and foul place within the earth.

 

At last, there was silence—a dreadful silence. The fallen assembly beheld the fruits of their labor with bewilderment and fear, appalled by the vulgarness of their handiwork; and all that remained of their sacrifice was but an agglomeration of pulp and gore, from the likes of which even God averted his gaze in utter revolt; contemptuous of a creation which he Himself would not have deigned to partake in. 

 

It was a putrid and harrowing thing; bearing the sigils of man and the twisted features of a beast, matted with begrimed fur and barring a twisted, bloodied maw. The fiend sneered and whined, writhing at its own abhorrent existence—its spirit plunged into perpetual anguish by this wicked act of occult alchemy, their minds riven and rabid; a testament to calamity. 

 

The wicked men laughed and jeered, appraising their vile works against nature; and the beast was instead mocked and aggrieved. And amidst its despondency, it was granted a bestial clarity, a focus of its commingled mind. It sheared down the dilettante sorcerers, their approbation short-lived as the brute clawed flesh and gnawed upon bone, feasting and hunting—for none among that omened flock were absconded from the wrath of the creature. Now, it consumed all that lingered within those catacombs; its channels flowing with fresh blood and ichor, not merely rotting bone. 

 

God needn’t deal justice that day, for the devil himself had instead.

 

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Spoiler

Don't ask me where it came from. I guess this is what happens when you become edgy 😪

 

[Callistus 963]

"Acts induced by beasthood are not always foolish, and deeds sown by men are not always benevolent. Regardless, one must always strive for goodness."

A martyr remarks, enthroned on a great seat of ice that dares not to melt.

[Jentos 6813]

"Try to flee the God as one may, one's soul is already bargained for even before birth. One cannot flee the hands of the World, and the cold justice of fate. There is no good, no bad. Merely consequences, punishment, which none may escape. Not even the magi." Spoke one foreigner, eyes illuminated by starlit contemplation. 

[rukio 8909]

*grabs popcorn while people write emote responses to an off-topic, creative writing post

[Valannor 6344]

A wonderful piece, Sorc. Makes me want a short story with this quality, like 10k words or so.

 

+1

[Hephaestus 1317]

“The tireless and most devout worship makes us men… makes us more than men… makes us – makes us men no more.” To much appeal for his sorry state, and appeal to greater beast hood, the Vicar, First of the Ordained sayeth, but few harrowing croaks crossing and begrudging that tongue of his, laced in the cold embrace of blissful sacrilege.