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Malevolent Benediction


Sorcerio
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What good is an oath taken in perjury;
To speak a vow one knows they will break?

Can eternity reconcile us with that offense

And return our spirits once more to grace?
Or are we to forever languish in our sorrows,

To wrestle with our sins to the end of days?

 


 

The embrace of night was suffocating, the dark clouds casting an oppressive shadow which denied even the stars their light. The wind, reduced to no more than a whisper, muttered of ostensive conspiracy amidst the trees, and bones rattled deep beneath the fetid earth as men gathered within their derelict vaults of stone, driven by an odious purpose. For it was these men, mortal and destined for death, who sought to twist both themselves and others into something far more terrible — and it was on this night that they would manifest their treacherous enterprise, to bid forth a relic of antiquity in their campaign for their promised Lord. Thus the tombs were alight, and the altar draped red in fevered anticipation, prepared to spurn the clutches of death which had rewarded the fallen champion for his martyrdom. 

 

Blasphemous incantations echoed throughout the halls of stone; the red embers crackled spitefully in the tomb, their gleaming mirth deprived as darkness soon swallowed their light whole. And from the throes of shadow and dark, a lifeless silhouette would rise, shackled to a dilapidated coil as the hollow fragment of a man who pretends to be whole. The assembly gazed upon their fell creation, possessed by a conceited pride in its cruel perfection. 

 

The unorthodox dirges ceased, and the chieftain of the red men stepped forward to marvel at this immortal slave. From the bowels of his robes he procured a single talisman of thorns, one that shone with an oppressive radiance which compelled, by pain of fire, the soldier to kneel. 

 

And so he knelt. 

 

So it was that he would carry his blade with a terrible plight, tethered to this earth as an omen of red and black possessed by agony and wroth, and obliged to crusade on behalf of the very apostasy which he had once forsworn himself against. No longer would he abide by knightly creed or moral code which bound him in life, but rather to the whims of misfortune, forever consigned to the bidding of the masters that have ensnared him — and no living man can say what cruelties he may be forced to commit in their stead. 

 

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A creature in the dark, stirs. Its sleep has come to end. 

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