[Prophecy] | THE WORLD CAN'T SEE YOU FALL

[Werew0lf 24179]

@Halt @Werew0lf

 

 

As though walking across a field of organs, the squelching of footsteps muddied the inky landscape of a foreign land – it was a cold, black realm; trees hung with spotted intestines, and cave entrances abjured sharp canines. 

 

Doused in wax, the air burned heavily with the acrylic stench of gel, or colorant, and flummoxed the senses of all those who trekked across the terrain. With a small burble, small purls of shadows escaped dips into the earth. The skies were an empty canvas, left martyred by the death of an old, foreign being, its blood painted the white clouds in a vibrant crimson glint – the bloodied moon hung in the clouds with rancor.

 

 

Seams of black and white mist escaped the tincture of two people–vastly different, but inherently similar. Adorned in suits of black and white, their eyes glint with otherworldly determination; a crossbow was held taut in the palms of the gloomy, dark hunter by the name of Cassius–a black spiked mace prepared itself at the hip of a rubicund leather belt, strapped for utility. In the hands of the other, Idris, his fingers twisted around the hilt of a lustrous golden weapon, beaming with a divine wreath that called to all menaces in the vicinity.

 

SNAP – the sound of a crackling branch averted their gazes. Cassius silently shifted in the direction of the moving terrain, and hefted the crossbow upright, “Over there, brother,” a spare index-finger jutted out towards the sound. His eyes, wide, knowing, much the same as an owl’s intuition, remain perked towards the cardinal path.

 

With his knees protruding into a crouch, Idris raised his left-hand, and started to make way towards the source of this crackle; silent, and the crow moved. The circle of death. His footsteps bore heavy with the ghastly stench of death–for how many did he kill? The reaper’s song resonated in the whispers of the forlorn gargling terrain. “Take aim, brother,” bid Idris.

 

The crossbow moved up; his aim was steady, resolute, there was no shake or quiver, it was stern and hardened–the stirrup fixated itself onto the tree. Cassius wrapped his finger around the lever-type trigger, a bolt socketed itself into the slot, and for a brief moment, there was a cold, red glint that honed into the area.“Aiming,” it was a gruff, short response.

 

A tremorous roar vaulted out from behind the discordant trees holler; it was a creature of matte-black, covered in prickly pine-cones and black slosh. With arms as wide as tree trunks, and nails as far stretching as roots, the beast gargled from the pit of its throat. Immediately, the crossbow bolt heaved out in the direction of the beast. 

 

The bolt pelted its torso; Cassius clenched his fist with a faint shimmer running through his sleeve, and a whirl of odd energy sprouted out from the tip of the arrow-head. Thick, veiny black tendrils and spikes ruptured out from its peak and impaled the creature in all directions, rooting it into the earth. In conjecture with his brother, a smog of gold erupted from the boots of Idris, and like the heaven’s beams, he was sent forth and out towards the beast–his golden longsword pierced into the stomach of the beast, and its pained bellows shook the earth.

 

Cassius and Idris retreated back towards the hillside; they watched as the beast writhed, the demon crawled across the gel-esque dirt, and then, with a thud, fell limp. Their eyes betrayed the sense of victory–there was no other voice, no sound besides the burbling of noxious wellsprings, and the shifting of their boots.

 

And in those silent moments, the world answered as a loud awakening – the beast, assumed to be felled, instantly shot back up from its humped spine. The golden cut of the vaulted weapon left it only drooling with nectar and desire, and those spiked entrails seemed to be of little effect, as if a temporary barbed wire held its frame.

 

“That did not work,” Cassius aridly drawled, flicking his black tricorn hat. Swaying his left-hand, the crossbow de-manifested into a gout of trickling black smoke. In return, his grasp latched onto the black, sharpened flail-mace in his possession. “Should we consider returning, and find others?,” He recommended.

 

Idris held a stern, cold gaze–it was lifeless, but so invested by a desire to live. It was deathly, yet filled by a lively cadence. After a few moments, short words followed: “Let us return.”

 

@Halt

 

Tears into reality splintered as a perfidious mirror-labyrinth – an eternal shifting vortex of images, colours, as if space and time itself was at its weakest. Idris stepped out from the portal, his white clothes smeared in wet grease and black junk. With a small sway of his left-hand, the world did as he commanded, and immediately, his clothes were no longer trodden and dishevelled; they were clean, without muck or grime. The ink in his boots dispersed back towards the ocean, and the small grains of dirt no longer besmirched his twinges of hair. 

 

As if a gawking crow nested upon its prey, Idris watched the island of Kalldur with a slight reprieve. “This place is lively, brother.” The being, adorned in a man’s appearance, knelt before the shore and cupped grains of sand. They filtered between his fingers coarsely, blown away by the winds. “Are we going to find much here?”

 

@Werew0lf

 

From the flank of Idris, another being stepped out into the shores. Unlike his brother, darkness prevailed each footstep; the shadows curled beneath his boots, they twisted and writhed, and from his white, long hair, a set of eyes glinted in the dusk of his visage. There was gravel in his voice, it hurt, it was painful. “We will find what we want to find. You just have to keep an open-eye,” Cassius murmured, and without much else to say, or to offer, he started to venture forth towards the forest shrubbery; as the duo walked the path, all birds seemed to go mute; there was no caw, no hoot or toot. 

 

“The foul odour of beasts, it mixes with the stench of mortals. Be cautious – stay alert.” A sharp tooth curled out from his bottom lip, twisting out violently. “We need enough to beat the thing.”

 

The Owl.

The Crow.

 

They both took flight.

 

Spoiler

@Katara @pomegrad @Gamma @esotericas @SethWolf @Timer @Junoix @winterblood @Rayalia @Jaelon @Mady @pkdon @MunaZaldrizoti  @Songwitch @Reckless Banzai Screamer @Axelu @Frostdrop1 @Unwillingly @ibraheemc2000 @Nestro_Miner @Cheeseycereal @Cheese @KillerMaid @Apotolofo  @Dyl

 

The above vision is not exclusive to those pinged.

 

[ivery 590]

In the space between one step and the next, in the all-consuming darkness of void, something slumbers.

 

Someone, rather. Too pale to be alive, and yet she shudders with breath- a single dot of white amongst the muck and mire. Caught in a nightmare, perhaps, that is somehow better than waking.

 

She only stirs when the cries of beasts wake what she holds between her fists. It writhes and growls; she tightens her grip.

 

“Not yet,” she whispers, and waits for her brothers with closed eyes.

[woke 1157]

A man jolted awake within Kalldur's shores, breath ragged and skin damp from the weight of nightmare.

 

Spoiler

 

[prophetisms 982]

Upon the mountains of Kalldur, a woman surged out of slumber, upright in bed. Her hair had tangled from tossing and turning, and her skin turned to goosebumps. The makings of a nightmare, no doubt. What does a nightmare mean, though, to a woman who is the author of her dreams?

 

She has to find out.

[Axelu 4333]

One of nameless birth and shrouded beginnings, save for rumor of deserts vast and unending, rose from slumber that eve. A wonder it was, for never did she dream. Yet the stars of the southern firmament, unblemished by smoke or mortal stain, burned as though in summons. And lo, as their silent chorus pressed upon her spirit, it seemed she was chosen to answer. 

[MunaZaldrizoti 8037]

Upon Kalldur, another Crow awoke in the midst of a humble encampment, the pound of a quickened heartbeat thumping within her chest. After her leaving Karoslund and fleeing Aevos, she had thought the normalcy that had always eluded her might finally be attained. A peace away from the machinations of others and the flames of war.

 

It seemed that was not to be.

[ibraheemc2000 2965]

 

𓅇♫♪♬♪♫𓅇

 

 

A reflection of rays bounced between the soft rolling laps of water against illuminated cold steel that mirrored the moon. The scent of crisp air of the island of Kalldur, battled the freezing briny breeze of the ocean washed side to side against an armored knight, who reclined against a small tree that bore crystal white leaves.

 

 Thud Thud, Thud Thud. The helm lifted hazily from the earthy sand toward the reflection of the moon that danced methodically against the soft lulls of the ocean, which returned white dancing light upon his golden and steel plate armor, The Imperial Knight, The Sandsworn.

 

His eyes illuminated by the light beneath the dark shelter of the helm beneath that watched the glittering water, his mind both distant and present. Thud thud, Thud thud. His eyes closed to embrace the darkness to collect himself.

 

 An ebony glove, shelled with a steel gauntlet left the unsheathed Kadarsi steel designed Shamshir that was cradled to his chest, and reached to his helm to press it against the bitter cold steel. 'What could it mean?'  He slowly stood to his feet to tower over the water and let the howling cold waft under his helm which made any sleep retreat from its relentless siege.

 

The helm looked toward his left at the tall mountain in the distance, almost a whisper, a promise. He took the old hardened badawi sheathed, and with the moon’s glinting rays flashed the mirror of the black and white dunes of a blade shut and secured into its cover. Thud thud, thud thud. ‘Let us see to this call. Let us beat this thing.’ Zubayr Bin Shamil, Sandsworn, rises to the dream.

 

 

@Werew0lf

[Nestro_Miner 589]

Jaza'aa's body stirred and twisted as the nightmares grew more real, a sudden burst of energy as he awoke from slumber's end into nightmare's beginnings, ocean-blue orbs grew wide as the heavens above as visions began to repeat within his mind and soul.

What could this all mean? An answer sought as the days carried on.

[Pandamainia 86]

 

Someone. . .

 

Somewhere. . . 

 

Slept very soundly.

 

[Apotolofo 2204]

 

༻────────────˳˙⋆ ☀ ⋆˙˳ ────────────༺

 

Hera wakes, sitting up within gnarled roots- eyes opening to the first rays of dawn, shining down through that cradling oak's branches. She watches as a blackbird takes flight, listening as the last hoots of an owl die with the moon. 

 

A great beast. A hunt. Another horror to haunt descendant kind. 

 

She watched those birds, a pair of feathers drifts down. Plucked from the grass- the shaman braids her hair for the day to come... Plumage of owl and crow woven into one such strand- a reminder of her dream, a symbol of what she witnessed. A call, to those blessed. 

 

Dream, or vision? She wondered. Only time will tell. 

 

 

༻────────────˳˙⋆ ☀ ⋆˙˳ ────────────༺

 

[Rayalia 537]

Azruphêl's tossing and turning rests in time with the sway of her anchored ship until, one so feverous, tips her out of her hammock and deposits her with a jolt upon recently caulked planks. In the same motion, she slams back into wakefulness with a panic; never one had she been stranger to nightmares, and yet this one drew far too realistic, far too near. It takes little time - almost none at all - for her to take stock of her surroundings, return to her senses, and yet the sense of unease rests unsubdued. With a heavy breath, she wraps herself in her overcoat and takes to the deck, to the fresh air, to the ship's starboard side.

 

Upon the shores of Kalldur does she gaze, the moonlight and its accompanied stars casting light and shadow down unto the lands near, crafting an inky blackness in the waters just below her. For once, she takes no comfort in the sight, reminded instead by images steadfast in her mind.

 

The birds do not sing... but it is just nighttime.

The shadows upon the beach are long... but they do not writhe.
The darkness rests stagnant, does not quell... but it is simply midnight.

No further sleep comes that night, nor does she rest steady for those immediately following; not until she's able to convince herself it was only a dream. 

And yet... and yet...

[Frostdrop1 1843]

The next morn, the devil stood upon the crest of a snow-capped mount. Piercing out, his jaded gaze scoured the isle below for meaning amid the images which plagued his mind, for it was no ordinary dream. It was the solace of isolation that he sought to remedy his contemplation, away from lecture, away from study, away from the security of embrace. So rarely was control ripped from his grasp within his comfort of sleep; so long had it been since the beyond had yawned in his mind. Inherently, it left him disquieted. It left him at a loss. 

And yet, here he stood as the mountain-breeze blew upon his furs and threatened the ash that had been swept across his forehead, as freckles of snow dotted the warming ring of his hood, ruminating upon that which had meaning indiscernable. 

 

Slipping his gaze down, eyes fell on marred hands. One, pale and orange; one, fleshy and grotesque. Each, stained the same way. Each, trembling with the penance he paid each day. Beautiful torture. Clawed hands coiled, left uncertain. His path had taken him far from the flames which burned him. Every day, part of him had strode against the fate that was deigned, rightly or wrongly. He had grown a defect; he had lived a failure. Yet, he had to live by Conviction. He had To Be. He had to contiue in his fruitless endeavour to prove to himself some unobtainable contentedness existed for him. And yet, never could he truly control what Fate had bestowed him. He fought, perhaps, because Fate made it so. To War, eternal, within himself. 

Yet the thought he could not erase from his mind, one never quite small enough to ignore, yet never loud enough to consume:

was he still a monster?

Each day he clawed, and he had done so long before any severence, but perhaps he was wrong to do so.

Perhaps it didn't matter.

He was chiseling something of real beauty from remnant parts. He had fought before, and he would fight again. And whatever awaited, he would realise his duty. He would continue to War for that which was impossible - no matter what came.