Okkult I. - II. - III. - IV. - V. - VI. - VII. - VIII. - IX. - X.
The ceiling of the Hall of the Horned is my only home, where they made me crown and slave I serve my sentence in a time without time chained by duty forever. The Stitchers broke my legs, bound them into circles— beautiful. I cannot move. I hang here, a chandelier of human bones. They gave me arms to hold their candles. No longer can I lift a sword, no uprising can I lead. What remains of me is doomed to light the darkened days. In the center of all bones sits my skull, forced to stare down at those, who broke my spine. I must watch the hall and cannot die, cannot cry. Ears forced open to their laughter— their songs of rape ...and death. Sometimes my jaws break, the crown howls like a dog in pain. Their crossbows spit arrows, splitting bones, twisting hope. Reminding me what I am and where I belong. Could I only cry tears would flood the fog drown this castle a vast ocean devours all earth. No mercy. Stitchers have no mercy. I am not entirely dead, and nothing in me is alive. I became a thing that traps my soul in bone. I am an outsider even to the one who gave me birth. A flaw to her, and wrong, in the eyes of the gods. Prayers are useless in Skreiburg, the house of gods. So I stare, and stare, and stare. No tears. ·†· First, the sound of battle: trumpets, drums. Stone walls rumbled. Skreiburg ached. Horned warriors stood side by side black armour, heavy shields— born to die this day, shivering behind the gates. Heralds: Dog-Beast has fallen The Gap has opened The gates will open to the slayer Westskrei opened— rumbling, slow, groaning. Centuries asleep broken for this day. Dust fell. Ancient timber gave way. The smell of rot forbade the future. Only one man enters— the one who slew the beast. Mortal father once, judge and executioner today. He has no tongue. He cannot forgive. He has no eyes. He is blind to suffering. He has no ears. He is deaf to their calls. No battlecries in the hall. Vindman’s boneflutes lament outside. Thunder crawls across the crowd. Mutemaker draws itself. One scream: The Judge descends. Arrows fly and bite him. A hundred times, a hundred stings. Every time he sees the quiet Witch and her burning child. They called: Circle of the thousand blades whirled by the breath of many cutting deep. But the Judge cannot die. One by one is offered on the altar of Mutemaker. No wound can end the Judge. Limbs and heads—freed from life. Deaf. Blind. Mute. He welcomed them into his world. When it was done the walls were red and the air hung stale. The Stitchers would have loved to return and craft in such a place. The Judge fell on his knees. Renewed his oath. All gods I slay. Godslayer. ·†· Skreiburg is no longer forever. No longer am I. The Judge came, as once foretold. Perhaps I am not forgotten. A wounded man moves in shadow, dagger in his hand— to end the rebellion, to kill the newborn Godslayer, to chain me for aeons. All repeats when steel finds its heart. Once I was the Judge. With what remains, I break my own bones. My arm, free at last, I tear the candle from my wax-flesh It burns Hot blood runs over bone. I return to battle. I throw the candle. My final strike hits the assassin’s eye. He screams once before my weapon pierces his skull and he is gone. Now all are dead. If they had not cut my lips, I would smile. The Godslayer turns to me, and I cannot hide from him. He sees me. He knows me. Now he draws Mutemaker and cuts the rope that holds me up. The merciless grants mercy. I fall. I howl. I scream. Oh, bless you, brother. ·†· The chandelier hits the floor. Bones break like glass, rising through windows, walls, and stone. They whirl into the air, like ash, ein Funkenflug, reaching for the sky. A thousand little lights mark the end of an aeon. From now on, the day is cut in two. Chandelier of the sky. I call you stars. You died with purpose. I hope I die the same.
Leave an offering †
Join the secret cult.
Artwork by Ashmore.
Amazing. this almost feels like beowulf. A dark epic, blood soaked. I adore this shit!
Critism wise, it isn't really Critism, i just wanted more. (I'll have to go back and read the others.) This shit should be scrawled on like ten thousand year old parchment made of human skin.
Brilliant piece. Would love to read more about this world.