The day was long. The day was hot. The day was blood red.
A specific kind of war had driven many of them mad, not that they were not already a maddened sort. They were the strong and beautiful. Ghostly sculptures of cold skin that often times deceived the cattle into believing they were at least tepid. Left out to rot meat under a baking sun and now cooled to a degree that made them interesting. Many of them had wild, wild eyes that were black enough to collect the stars. Often thought as of shamans, of soothsayers for a generation still building seance circles and massive structures meant for appeasing long dead gods.
But this day? This day the gods awoke.
Screams were a verse that played over and over. The broken jargon of the dead feasting on the dead. They came in swarms like too fast insects on two legs, some on four, and they all seemed to sing the very same song. One of carnage. One of a rabid need to snuff out what had banded together a family of Thirteen.
And the children of Shaitan wept, but they did not flee.
Each one of them fought against their brethren, against their sisters, and became shredded ribbons of corpses that no longer had the thirst. They lay in the final death and spit their curses at those that put them to their graves. Burned their bones, salted the ashes.
These were the last moments of sweet, sweet beasts that carried the last connection to Ashur. For they never breathed in the shadow of Knossos but felt the white hot magma of her bosom. The milk of the fire which cleansed the stronghold of Chorazin.
Together, they held their ashen hands until no longer could they. Brittle as dried wood and just as quick to burst into flames. The Thirteen watched as the horrors were drawn to the cloaks of the Neverborns and pulled far, far to the thickest edges of Oblivion. And how they cheered! They roared with their bellies and their frozen tongues while the black blood of their most hated kin became history for their dusty tomes.
But I did not join my children in their demise.
A specific kind of war had driven many of them mad, not that they were not already a maddened sort. They were the strong and beautiful. Ghostly sculptures of cold skin that often times deceived the cattle into believing they were at least tepid. Left out to rot meat under a baking sun and now cooled to a degree that made them interesting. Many of them had wild, wild eyes that were black enough to collect the stars. Often thought as of shamans, of soothsayers for a generation still building seance circles and massive structures meant for appeasing long dead gods.
But this day? This day the gods awoke.
Screams were a verse that played over and over. The broken jargon of the dead feasting on the dead. They came in swarms like too fast insects on two legs, some on four, and they all seemed to sing the very same song. One of carnage. One of a rabid need to snuff out what had banded together a family of Thirteen.
And the children of Shaitan wept, but they did not flee.
Each one of them fought against their brethren, against their sisters, and became shredded ribbons of corpses that no longer had the thirst. They lay in the final death and spit their curses at those that put them to their graves. Burned their bones, salted the ashes.
These were the last moments of sweet, sweet beasts that carried the last connection to Ashur. For they never breathed in the shadow of Knossos but felt the white hot magma of her bosom. The milk of the fire which cleansed the stronghold of Chorazin.
Together, they held their ashen hands until no longer could they. Brittle as dried wood and just as quick to burst into flames. The Thirteen watched as the horrors were drawn to the cloaks of the Neverborns and pulled far, far to the thickest edges of Oblivion. And how they cheered! They roared with their bellies and their frozen tongues while the black blood of their most hated kin became history for their dusty tomes.
But I did not join my children in their demise.