][Second Sacrament][ ][NIGHT TERROR][
One looks out and the square is desolate. Gray ash gently cascades down from the bleak sky above; a murder of crows searching for anything edible. A lone bird lands upon the street, pecking at a bred crumb with his beak for a moment before perking up in fear. The birds’ squawk in frenzy before flying off towards the safety of a looming church.
And soon, the dreadful sirens howl.
From the core of the city it comes, one feels it, sees it, a creeping, enveloping wave of darkness. As the shadow snakes through the streets, the metals turn to rust, the cement crumbles and blood smears upon and across the walls. Hell itself opens, grasping the center of Vertere in it’s fiery hold.
Fear.
One hears the voice of a demon. Serpentine, grating, and petrifying. And there one looks and sees. Four raggedly dressed women. Frantically they run from what was once a diner, carrying various cans of food in their arms. “Hurry! We must hurry!” The eldest cries out.
It is said that fear is weakness. It is said that fear is flaw.
Three grotesque beetles scamper up from an opening sewer vent, darting towards the woman. “It’s coming!” One of them weeps, kicking at the creatures as they flee. “We’re almost there, don’t look back!”
Such foolishness. Sin is thy only weakness. Sin is thy only flaw.
More and more of the horrific beetles pour out of the cracks and caverns of the street until they form a thick and rolling wave of blackness that stalks the women like an incoming tide.
Fear is control.
The insects begin to roll against one another, their limbs fusing.
Fear is perfection.
From within the mass, a figure begins to form.
I exist to hunt those damned by their own sin.
Long, bloodstained fingers stretch out from the innards of the crying insects, grasping a tight fist in the air.
I am the warden of this prison. The watcher.
The full, towering height of the figured emerges, reaching up at the sky.
I am the hunter of this prey.
The painful, hulking helmet forges; the weight of it instantly pulling at the base of his neck. Agony. Always the first sensation he felt. The punishment of the executioner.
I am he who keeps order amongst the darkness.
The women round a corner, seeing the church not two blocks away. “HURRY! WE’LL MAKE IT, HAVE FAITH!”
I...
The last of the beetles cry out in pain as they stretched, forming his monolithic blade.
Am fear.
Without so much as a grunt of effort, he hurls the massive slate of steel. One gapes and sees, the weapon spinning through the air before stabbing down through the waist of the youngest women; cleaving her in half.
As the others stop to look in horror, he had closed the gap between them. With each hand he strikes out and lifts them into the air by the scruff of their necks. Their cries are silence to him; he turns to them a deaf ear. What had once intoxicated him, was now nothing more than sacred duty.
For thy sins, I cast thee into the lake of fire. May the ashes of Ghenna burn the sin from thy flesh.
His thoughts enter their minds, still echoing from the hollow prison of his helmet. They kick and claw at him, but still did not release their precious food, even as he slams their skulls together.
May the damned be damned, the cursed be cursed, the punished be punished.
He releases them, letting the bodies fall to the ground in a heap. Their foreheads cave in to one another, the sharp fragments of their skulls piercing through each other’s flesh. With a very heavy sigh he lifts his mask up to the high towers of the church, the only place sin still lingered, free from his judgment.
Soon. Soon I will pave the narrow path. And paradise shall be thine.
The sirens continue to wail as the crimson one turns to the city streets that began to peel away like bloodied flesh from bone and rise into the air. A gnarled hiss leaves him in a shudder of his helmet; his towering form shatters into ash and falls across the steps of the church. Ash which forms into the same onyx creepers that he had forged from, and begin to skitter up the walls of the holy building.
At the precipice, the rising symbol of the holy Metatron above the siren becomes covered in the screeching insects. And as before, the creatures melt across eachother and the executioner shrieks into being.
A final bidding he raises his blood-soaked hands out to the square towards the holy fountain. One would cast their gaze up and see embers of orange and yellow falling like snow from the burnt heavens around him. And there he would call out to the deepest reaches of their minds. To those who saw but did not see.
Hearken to me oh sinful creation. In here is tragedy. Art thou player or audience? Be as it may, the end doth remain. All go on only toward death. Step past thy threshold. And walk the narrow path. There I. The one. Shall cleanse thy crown. And bless thee in the blood of thine own transgression. Speak. Raise thy chorus unto me. Thou who doth yearn for death. Come unto me....... . . . .
[OOC---It has come to my attention. That there are those who wish to face Xuchilbara. Before the end of the curfew. This nightmare given to you all is an invitation. To step unto the streets. And face him. He is willing to punish those longing to be punished. If you are one of those willing. To risk your character’s life. Then IM me at Xuchilbarra. Or feel free to reply to this thread in an RP fashion. Avatar's too are free to witness. Take note Pyramid Head will be entering your nightmares till Wednesday night. In attempt to dare you to sin. To torment you with visions of his coming blessing. Till your will is weak and you rush out into the street to meet the reaper. Please forgive me. As I may not be available for a couple more hours as I rest. Late night maiming. Can take a lot of out someone.]
And soon, the dreadful sirens howl.
From the core of the city it comes, one feels it, sees it, a creeping, enveloping wave of darkness. As the shadow snakes through the streets, the metals turn to rust, the cement crumbles and blood smears upon and across the walls. Hell itself opens, grasping the center of Vertere in it’s fiery hold.
Fear.
One hears the voice of a demon. Serpentine, grating, and petrifying. And there one looks and sees. Four raggedly dressed women. Frantically they run from what was once a diner, carrying various cans of food in their arms. “Hurry! We must hurry!” The eldest cries out.
It is said that fear is weakness. It is said that fear is flaw.
Three grotesque beetles scamper up from an opening sewer vent, darting towards the woman. “It’s coming!” One of them weeps, kicking at the creatures as they flee. “We’re almost there, don’t look back!”
Such foolishness. Sin is thy only weakness. Sin is thy only flaw.
More and more of the horrific beetles pour out of the cracks and caverns of the street until they form a thick and rolling wave of blackness that stalks the women like an incoming tide.
Fear is control.
The insects begin to roll against one another, their limbs fusing.
Fear is perfection.
From within the mass, a figure begins to form.
I exist to hunt those damned by their own sin.
Long, bloodstained fingers stretch out from the innards of the crying insects, grasping a tight fist in the air.
I am the warden of this prison. The watcher.
The full, towering height of the figured emerges, reaching up at the sky.
I am the hunter of this prey.
The painful, hulking helmet forges; the weight of it instantly pulling at the base of his neck. Agony. Always the first sensation he felt. The punishment of the executioner.
I am he who keeps order amongst the darkness.
The women round a corner, seeing the church not two blocks away. “HURRY! WE’LL MAKE IT, HAVE FAITH!”
I...
The last of the beetles cry out in pain as they stretched, forming his monolithic blade.
Am fear.
Without so much as a grunt of effort, he hurls the massive slate of steel. One gapes and sees, the weapon spinning through the air before stabbing down through the waist of the youngest women; cleaving her in half.
As the others stop to look in horror, he had closed the gap between them. With each hand he strikes out and lifts them into the air by the scruff of their necks. Their cries are silence to him; he turns to them a deaf ear. What had once intoxicated him, was now nothing more than sacred duty.
For thy sins, I cast thee into the lake of fire. May the ashes of Ghenna burn the sin from thy flesh.
His thoughts enter their minds, still echoing from the hollow prison of his helmet. They kick and claw at him, but still did not release their precious food, even as he slams their skulls together.
May the damned be damned, the cursed be cursed, the punished be punished.
He releases them, letting the bodies fall to the ground in a heap. Their foreheads cave in to one another, the sharp fragments of their skulls piercing through each other’s flesh. With a very heavy sigh he lifts his mask up to the high towers of the church, the only place sin still lingered, free from his judgment.
Soon. Soon I will pave the narrow path. And paradise shall be thine.
The sirens continue to wail as the crimson one turns to the city streets that began to peel away like bloodied flesh from bone and rise into the air. A gnarled hiss leaves him in a shudder of his helmet; his towering form shatters into ash and falls across the steps of the church. Ash which forms into the same onyx creepers that he had forged from, and begin to skitter up the walls of the holy building.
At the precipice, the rising symbol of the holy Metatron above the siren becomes covered in the screeching insects. And as before, the creatures melt across eachother and the executioner shrieks into being.
A final bidding he raises his blood-soaked hands out to the square towards the holy fountain. One would cast their gaze up and see embers of orange and yellow falling like snow from the burnt heavens around him. And there he would call out to the deepest reaches of their minds. To those who saw but did not see.
Hearken to me oh sinful creation. In here is tragedy. Art thou player or audience? Be as it may, the end doth remain. All go on only toward death. Step past thy threshold. And walk the narrow path. There I. The one. Shall cleanse thy crown. And bless thee in the blood of thine own transgression. Speak. Raise thy chorus unto me. Thou who doth yearn for death. Come unto me....... . . . .
[OOC---It has come to my attention. That there are those who wish to face Xuchilbara. Before the end of the curfew. This nightmare given to you all is an invitation. To step unto the streets. And face him. He is willing to punish those longing to be punished. If you are one of those willing. To risk your character’s life. Then IM me at Xuchilbarra. Or feel free to reply to this thread in an RP fashion. Avatar's too are free to witness. Take note Pyramid Head will be entering your nightmares till Wednesday night. In attempt to dare you to sin. To torment you with visions of his coming blessing. Till your will is weak and you rush out into the street to meet the reaper. Please forgive me. As I may not be available for a couple more hours as I rest. Late night maiming. Can take a lot of out someone.]