SURVIVE ME

[femurlord 3751]

 

[This is a private roleplay post, only meant for the affiliated eyes of the Black Church.]

Bats gathered in flocks, outnumbering the roaming Zevnka, squeaking and casting down battish glares to all who walked the blackstone cathedral.  The slightest prompt of a stalking shadow, a battish presence, saw a cloud of bats take flight from their hanging on the ceilings. They swirled and swarmed, providing to every column a declaration. For all eyes which frequent the Black Church, a blood-written message reads:

⤝✤ ────────────⤛ ⛧ ⤜──────────── ✤⤞

Hear ye, hear ye,

 

I am the Farmer, Lord of all Vampires.

 

The Warlord is consumed, naught but a red spatter on the Black Church’s tiles. Reduced to meat for his cowardice. For the Weak are Meat and the Strong do Eat.

 

Over his blood and bones, I declare my ownership over his post. But, in the light of absent leadership, which failed to manifest promises of an Age of Darkness, I make my claim of the entire Black Church itself. The dark is wasted here, left to the snapping jaws of restless Crusaders. 

 

I come to lead you from the damning light, as any dark angel of Hell shall, to lead you into an Age of Ruin. Already has it started and it shall continue with the head of the Black Pontiff, whom I call to meet my challenge upon the dais where he loved to preach.  

 

You have two years.

 

Survive me.

⤝✤ ────────────⤛ ⛧ ⤜──────────── ✤⤞

 

[You have between May 26th - June 9th. @_Leyd]

[King_Kunuk 3022]

"and so, the curtain shall close upon this act in the dark. Let us see how it shall end as the spawned Lords of Hell do war with the Master over the Brood of Blood," the Gravelord of Necromancers would speak in the quite halls. "We shall be Witness regardless."

[PrimnyaQuorum 3998]

In the hell's writhes what was the Warlord, it's name stolen from it by its very own kin, created by its hand.

 

Still, in that lonely church, the distant echoing of marching and the far-off beat of the wardrums echoes yet; even as the land the church sits on finds its skies clearing, and its hellish influence lost.

[Mordringfan 166]

The Frost Dwarf lingered in the desolate halls of the Church, awaiting the battle between the Farmer and the Black Pontiff. Whoever would win, the Frost Dwarf was not dependant on.

[spaazmatism 1017]

"Erm..."
A passing Corcitura-warlock raised her finger, and adjusted her imaginary nerd-glasses.
"Actually... it'd be a black spatter..."