[Prophecy] TYRANNICIDE

[Pallodium 3775]

Spoiler

 

ᴋᴀʟᴋᴏᴛʜ ᴋᴀʟʀᴜʟᴀɴᴛ ʀᴏʜɴ’ᴜɴᴍᴀᴛᴀʀ ᴘᴇʀᴀɴᴛʀ ᴛᴏᴅᴀᴀɢ ʀᴏʜɴ’ᴜɴᴍᴀᴛᴀʀ ᴍʜᴀᴛ ᴛᴏᴅᴀᴀɢ ᴋᴀʟʀᴜʟᴀɴᴛ ᴋᴀʟʀɪᴋᴜʟ ʀᴏᴋᴜʟ ᴀᴋᴀʟ

 

This is a vision accessible to Seers, Naztherak, Clairvoyants, Veilwatchers, Nephilim, and all others with prophetic abilities per Prophecy lore.

 

 

ᴋᴜᴜʟ ᴅᴀᴋʜ ʀᴜᴛʜ ᴠɪɪᴢʀ ᴅᴀᴋʜ ʀᴜᴛʜ ʀᴏᴋʜᴀᴢ ᴋᴜᴜʟ ᴢᴇ’ʀᴀʜᴛ ʀᴀ’ᴡᴀᴀɢ ʀᴜᴀɢ ʀᴀ’ᴀᴋᴀʟ ʀᴜᴛʜ ᴋɪᴢᴛɪᴋ ᴅᴀᴋʜ ᴛʜᴛᴀʀ ʀᴜɴɴɪʜɪʟᴜᴢ

 

An undivine mockery of silence overthrows your slumber, the hushed quietude piercing through the endless nightmares that constantly ravaged your mind every time those eyelids dared so much as shut the slightest. Yet the uncanny silence was all but peaceful. Steadily, a limbo of apoptotic flickering lights and dimming streams overtook the stagnated dream, their fading hues swathing over your eyes, growing brighter, yet brighter, still brighter- and the world snapped.

 

Your mind throbbed as it forcefully construed something most vile, most abominable from the devoid scenery of bleak silence that was there but a mere instant prior; the world itself roared. Hordes of bloodsoaked carcasses littered the world as far as you could see, as rivers of crimson ichor plummet through the barren fields. Desiccated cadavers gorged upon one another, as the endless feast of cannibalism ensued, the ambience sweltering with foreign howls and occult chants all too haunting. And yet they were as familiar to you as your mothertongue.

 

Maelstroms of felflame engulf a voracious horde besides you, instantly immolating them in pure, unadulterated agony. War-chants ring out in the infernal tongue; as the scene violently shakes, a wave of nausea fills you as your form quakes outside of the blooddrenched battlefield, and rather into an inverted citadel- a cobbled-together aberration of masonry of some Hazmic architecture fused with that of a druidic battlement- both equally as corrupted and ransacked into a pastiche of a fortress. You stand inverted, propped upon a ceiling- gravity weighed down on your vessel, almost threatening to stretch your form until you ripped in twain- yet before you, a foul rite seemed to unfold in the silenced chambers.

 

ᴋᴀʟᴋᴏᴛʜ ᴋᴀʟʀᴜʟᴀɴᴛ ʀᴏʜɴ’ᴜɴᴍᴀᴛᴀʀ ᴘᴇʀᴀɴᴛʀ ᴛᴏᴅᴀᴀɢ ʀᴏʜɴ’ᴜɴᴍᴀᴛᴀʀ ᴍʜᴀᴛ ᴛᴏᴅᴀᴀɢ ᴋᴀʟʀᴜʟᴀɴᴛ ᴋᴀʟʀɪᴋᴜʟ ʀᴏᴋᴜʟ ᴀᴋᴀʟ

 

The following segment is solely accessible to Naztherak, Zar’akal, and those who were once Naztherak.

 

Foundlings lay cloistered around an elevated monarch of the infernal craft. Ichor spilt in ritual chiding, as sacrosanct daggers were passed around from one peon to another. A glint of steel. A flash of light. Blood spilt blood, and chaos ensued. The bodies of the many crumple to the floor as if rubbish compacted for the heap, squelching viscera onto the stone that hangs above the inverted room. Their vessels writhe in pain as the weight of their own travesty shackles them, as they crunch to meagre carcasses one after another. And one by one, the cadavers seethed in plumes of reddened smog. The flesh lapsed upon their surface erodes. And there, amongst them all, stood a great, burning eye. It watched and it knew. It seized and it saw. It bared the soul and it howled, as feelings flooded into your pitiful, battered soul.

 

ᴀʟɢ ᴛᴜᴋ ᴍᴀɢ ᴛᴜᴋᴏʀ ᴋᴜᴜʟ ʜᴏɴ ᴅᴀᴋʜ ʀᴜᴛʜ ᴢᴋᴀᴀᴛ ᴢᴜ’ᴋᴜʟ ᴢᴇɴ

「 D̷̗̳͍̃̌ᴀ̷̞͖̃̉̋̆ᴋ̴̢͍̈́̕ʜ̸̜́̔͆ꜱ̶̛̘̫̅̂ᴇ̷̣̞̜̋̀ʟ̷̨̞͍̞̅̓̈́̚ᴜ̵̰̫̘͈̀̽̉̀ᴀ̶̻̠͔͎͊̈͠ᴋ̷̡͇͑ᴀ̸̗̝͔̀̾̃ͅʟ̵̻͎̰̽̓͝ 」

ᴋʜʀᴜᴢ ʀᴀ’ʀᴏᴋᴍᴀᴇʟ ꜱᴇʟᴀᴛ ᴋᴜᴜʟ ᴅᴀᴋʜ ʀᴜᴛʜ ᴋᴀᴠᴇʟᴀᴛ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴛʀᴜɴ

 

Hunger. Craving. Wanderlust. An urge flooded your veins, tugged at your tattered soul and begat it heed the call to be crowned. An urge for paligenosis, an urge for inauguration, and a seething, unquenchable urge for transcendence. It would not matter how far you would have to march. It would not matter how far you would need to drag yourself. Over fields of blood, so-drenched in the ichor that it was as dense and thick as a field of mud in a voracious downpour; over fields of carcasses, desiccated and half-cannibalized in the brutal remnants of the search for the infernal climb; so too, over fields of kith and kin- those who had guided you on your path, brought you to where you stand today- ‘good’ or ‘bad’ it mattered not, for they were destined to perish. Destined for you to overtake them, rip them apart and supplant them in this world.

 

The greatest amongst you, those of most-twisted souls and most battered flesh, those who had superseded the mortal coil in favour of one infernal to escape the clutches of the Pentacle, felt this most vividly. To you, this was no hallucination, nor vision, nor even a meagre prophecy- this was reality. Bitter, glorious, inevitable, reality- for you lived this life. You had walked the realm of Moz’Strimosa in agony when you had been strung between life and death, and to you, this was destiny. Maleus surged within you, quaking and visceral- a surge, sudden and unemancipated, so dense it almost felt like your very vessels would pop- and then it exhumed from your tattered soul like a valve, a vast portion of your twisted stores of anima drafting just out of reach, untapped. And yet, a fragment rescinded. A portion of worthful fury surged forth, as knowledge carved itself within your minds- rites primeval and archaic, innate invocations most baleful ruptured forth in twain. Perhaps, for the first time in months, maybe years, perhaps decades, the feeling of unadulterated glee flooded your very vessel. Wanderlust. Craving. Hunger.

 

ᴋᴜᴜʟ ᴅᴀᴋʜ ʀᴜᴛʜ ᴠɪɪᴢʀ ᴅᴀᴋʜ ʀᴜᴛʜ ʀᴏᴋʜᴀᴢ ᴋᴜᴜʟ ᴢᴇ’ʀᴀʜᴛ ʀᴀ’ᴡᴀᴀɢ ʀᴜᴀɢ ʀᴀ’ᴀᴋᴀʟ ʀᴜᴛʜ ᴋɪᴢᴛɪᴋ ᴅᴀᴋʜ ᴛʜᴛᴀʀ ʀᴜɴɴɪʜɪʟᴜᴢ

 

You awaken. You slumber.

You crave ascension.

 

Spoiler

 

[PolarLoLs 984]

The Bishop finally rose from her chambers, nightmare nor vision to her it was a dream, The wreathing pulses soothed her temple, all but many figures remained a mystery.. With blasphemous insights she saw what was destined and merely uttered foul traces of the hellish tongue. A gaze now wandered, searching for the ones who sit among the Mortal Thrones

[Navigator 4260]

 

 

---

He had felt this before. This insipid feeling, the vagueness of interpretative visions and dreams that assaulted his mind violently. A man blessed to hear and see angels that none other saw had dreams like these on a regular basis.

 

This time, it was different. The visions. The meaning. The adrenaline and ecstasy that coursed through his body. This was no mere dream. This was no mere vision. This was foreshadowing. It was foreboding. Heralding some kind of great climax.

 

Like many times before, layered over the thunderous, harrowing sounds of the dream itself, he heard her voice, and it sung to him like a beautiful cacophony of terror. It made it all the more effervescent, and drove him to a blind belief like never before.

 

For long, he did not wake, trapped and enwraptured in the beauty of his melancholy. Never had such a glorifying vision gleamed over his psyche with such rawness and potency as this. It was rapture. It was an ascension of being, or at least the foreshadowing of such.

 

When he did come to his senses, when he did wake, he felt a sense of rejuvenation. New purpose. New ideals and new visions. As Messenger of the Black Church, he’d found renewed sense, a direction to the maddening voices in his head. This? It had given him drive.

 

And so, he stood from the cot he laid upon. His soul - twisted and warped as it was, consumed thoroughly by Her, had yet to succumb fully - and such was an unacceptable travesty. How was he to call himself Her Herald, how was he to call himself Her Chosen, if he did not succumb fully, and commit his body and psyche, in addition to his soul?

 

He knew what must be done. And he would stop at nothing to see it through.

[drywall 198]

This was familiar to the Bishop. 

     The agony portrayed, the rot which consumed, the interpretive dreams which had only ever shown ruin in its rawest form. He knew what they meant, he could only guess what was coming.

     Here, dancing between the world of knowing and not; A puppet on strings for the hells which consumed waking thoughts and sleepless nights. 
 

The ladder rungs called,  an echo in the dark long-since ignored. He’d been stagnant, waiting. Yet now was the time.
        Blood will spill.