Post by Deleted on Mar 12, 2014 12:53:49 GMT -5
Lord Vile ignored the stench of slaughter that perforated the air in the abandoned farmhouse. His freshly murdered family lay mere metres from him. He did his best to ignore the sight. The runes around Vile's body pulsed faintly, merely hinting at the power hidden beneath. The ring of necromancy clung to his finger with its cold grip as tight as ever.
The darkness which had previously enclouded his mind and pulled the strings of his cathargic actions was beginning to withdraw. Vile could slowly think more clearly, and began to reflect on the familicide which had just occured. On one hand, he had loved them in a way, like how you might enjoy a puppy's company that yaps and nibbles your toes. On the other hand, they were pathetic fools intent on growing fat from the work of others. No, he would not allow and could not have allowed them to glean any glory from his conquest. It was to be his, and his only.
The lethargic farmhouse he stood in reeked of decay and death, but it merely held the entrance to a sprawling underground facility beneath. Undecided about what he was going to do about the Church of Darkness, he stepped outside and contemplated his surroundings.
The sun glared down and bent its hatred upon the land, choking the very grass which grew upon the ground. Dusty mountains clawed at the sky in the distance, while gently rolling hills covered the rest of the plains. The entire area was abandoned, dead. Dead.
Vile's ring pulsed painfully and he winced as a drop of sweat trickled down his neck. He could feel the death all around his being, surrounding and choking him. Yet he had never felt more powerful. A rat scurried from beneath a bale of hay and bolted for the fields.
Lord Vile clenched his ring hand and cracked a phantom whip at the little vermin. A tendril of darkness whipped out and surgically sliced it clean in half, before rapidly withdrawing back to the ring. Vile stared at his hand, clenching and unclenching it, contemplating. What was his course of action to be?
When his father had been torturing his soul and carving runic symbols into his body, Vile had withdrawn within himself from the sheer agony. The ritual sparked nightmares which accessed secrets he could never have even contemplated. Dreadful things he had never wanted to know.
Dark, contorted, faceless beings came to him. Whispered of horrors and how to achieve them. He was to be the instrument that would rip the world apart. The Death Bringer.
The basic apocaleptic theory of the Church of Darkness, all good respectable cults need an apocaleptic theory, was that a being so proficient and powerful in necromancy would be able to completely stop death itself.
The darkness which had previously enclouded his mind and pulled the strings of his cathargic actions was beginning to withdraw. Vile could slowly think more clearly, and began to reflect on the familicide which had just occured. On one hand, he had loved them in a way, like how you might enjoy a puppy's company that yaps and nibbles your toes. On the other hand, they were pathetic fools intent on growing fat from the work of others. No, he would not allow and could not have allowed them to glean any glory from his conquest. It was to be his, and his only.
The lethargic farmhouse he stood in reeked of decay and death, but it merely held the entrance to a sprawling underground facility beneath. Undecided about what he was going to do about the Church of Darkness, he stepped outside and contemplated his surroundings.
The sun glared down and bent its hatred upon the land, choking the very grass which grew upon the ground. Dusty mountains clawed at the sky in the distance, while gently rolling hills covered the rest of the plains. The entire area was abandoned, dead. Dead.
Vile's ring pulsed painfully and he winced as a drop of sweat trickled down his neck. He could feel the death all around his being, surrounding and choking him. Yet he had never felt more powerful. A rat scurried from beneath a bale of hay and bolted for the fields.
Lord Vile clenched his ring hand and cracked a phantom whip at the little vermin. A tendril of darkness whipped out and surgically sliced it clean in half, before rapidly withdrawing back to the ring. Vile stared at his hand, clenching and unclenching it, contemplating. What was his course of action to be?
When his father had been torturing his soul and carving runic symbols into his body, Vile had withdrawn within himself from the sheer agony. The ritual sparked nightmares which accessed secrets he could never have even contemplated. Dreadful things he had never wanted to know.
Dark, contorted, faceless beings came to him. Whispered of horrors and how to achieve them. He was to be the instrument that would rip the world apart. The Death Bringer.
The basic apocaleptic theory of the Church of Darkness, all good respectable cults need an apocaleptic theory, was that a being so proficient and powerful in necromancy would be able to completely stop death itself.