The Damning hands of Fate P.2

[Haseroth 953]

Spoiler

 

The Damning hands of Fate II

 

 

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The light of the candle flared and flickered, soon enough it faded. The room within which the orphan slept in, was covered in a peaceful darkness. As he slumbered, his mind was overcome with dreams. Twisted patterns, lights and voices echoed within the edges of the dream as it visualized itself within his mind.

A child walks upon a snow blanketed field of vineyards and trees. An usual climate for this land. He pushes himself up the field, away from that which happened behind him. Passing by the frozen statues of civilians which had attempted to escape the calamity. Eventually, the youth reaches the shade of a tree, away from the falling ‘snow’. He turns, and looks upon the landscape he had fled from. A large city, tall stone walls, standards flying in the wind. Spikes of ice jutt outward from its center, splitting walls, houses and all that stood in its way.

The snow continues to fall, and it never stops falling for this, blanketing the once verdant hills of the heartlands into a hellscape brought about by thanic madness. The youth rests for some time, crossing the field, a path lays undisturbed amidst the snow and corpses. He follows his guts, and heads north. A pull, invisible and powerful, perhaps fate, drives him towards that direction.

The Orphan wakes as the thunder roars across his window. He rises slightly, leaning over the windowsill to look outside. All he can see is pitch black darkness, a void which is occasionally illuminated by distant streaks of lightning. Hunger begins to gnaw at his stomach as he rises from bed, he descends the stairs, “Miss Agnes?” He calls out, no response.. But the hearth is still roaring, this he can tell from looking at the flickering of the firelight which dances across the wall.

A streak of crimson ichor is the first thing he can see upon the floor. He descends further, arching a brow in confusion. The youth turns the corner to witness a hellish scene. The caretaker lays on the ground physically gored into the shape of a bloody, blooming flower.
His mind is much too young to understand what it is he is seeing. “How pretty..” He remarks, confusing his own soul further. An old man stands behind him now. He wraps a hand over his eyes. “It is not safe for you to be here!” He cried out. The youth recognized the voice of the tavern preacher.

Led away from the house, the only thing he can hear is the flickering of the fire growing louder. Then, the smell of smoke and flesh soon follows. Away, and away.. He is taken, until he too crosses a field towards a path.