|
|
|
Behind the flows of time, a hidden horror a waits the most cumbersome folk. With claws of the dammed, forged from the soles of demons. Beings forever tortured, and healed.
Their malice, hate, and anger flow out hidden within their blood. The Imps below them scamper, and scurry catching the drops in bowls made from human skulls. As the bowls fill and finally flow over. The Imps retire from their life of trouble and worry. Forming lines by the thousands, they cross and conform to a world of order. Spinning the lies of their masters to the unknowing, and week of will. Forever calling forth their blood. At the front of the line the bowls are emptied and the Imps return to their life of collection
But what of the blood? What happens when it flows out of the skulls? Onto the ground it is left, and into the dirt's hold does it seep. Stirring up the pains hidden there. As the blood rests, and slowly soaks up the dead's troubles, listening to their cries, and being a Gard for their teeth. Ever slowly it collects and solidifies. Becoming a base for power. But this life is short lived. Soon its borders begin to dry and become hard. Forging an ore out of itself.
As the years pass the ore collects more and more of the panes of the world. Soon the ore is in its prime and at last it is harvested from its cold home. Up from the ground it is torn. Spilling the bloods sacred holes, and the blood of the animal that lived there, adding to its hate.
Into sacks made from the skin of the dead and unruly. They are dropped and there they wait. Soon the Imps come once again and cart them off.
But what are these strange creatures? They do not move like the chaos before. Nor are their hands the same. And why do I smell burning flesh?
It is true what you might have thought. The Imps are bread for a reason. These were bread for their strong backs, insurance with heat, and their hands are better suited for holding rods for smelting and casting metals. Like assembly line of today the ores are dropped into containers and carted off once again. Through the furnace of hell they pass. Melting down and purging its self of the imperfections and weaknesses that they gained in the dirt.
Finally the purest ore base is dropped and fills a part of a bowl. Hate and anger is this ores gift. And soon it will be joined by envoy, lust, pride, sloth, greed, and gluttony.
All have been forged in the same manner and forged for one reason. To forge create and maintain the devils claws. Also the claws of his angles. Granting on to them power over the corruptible hart.
They line up for the kill and dash for their prize. But some see before the fog clouds their judgement and they clime to higher ground. Some hear just in time to fight back and clime them selves. But the rest dim their own eyes, close off their ears, and harden their harts making them prime targets for the hunters.
With lunges, jabs, and a quick step. They tire out their prey. Scratching them, and leaving gouges all over. Soon they see there chance to pierce them in their harts. With each passing moment the force themselves into their body. Slowly disappearing from in front of the and passing into the body. Changing the way they look, and their clothes. Soon the prey looks and sees nothing. He reaches and rips out his own hart along with the claws. In awe he stands and in powered he feels. So he places the claw on his own hand and transforms himself into a pure hunter. Being a beacon of influence. With a single p***k from his claws. He starts a chain reaction that leads to the destruction of the prey's sole. And his own.
 morti_cacciatore · Thu Jan 12, 2006 @ 09:56pm · 1 Comments |
|
|
|
|
|
