Vermilion skies broke above, disembodied voices echoed from its
To where we go, i know not, for freedom has no purpose, or so they say. It is agreed upon that the voice of the heavens and echos of beings whom lack a physical vessel speak absolute and undisputed truth, and to those whom they bestow these truths upon are to act as their physical vessels, becoming their voice so as to speak from a stand point of knowledge unknown to the limited minds that bind the race of man. These physical limitations that separate this form of being from the energy which comprises them in turn leaves them blinded, unknowing of the realms beyond what is known and so developed a vast fear of the unknown, shared among the human race, an unbridled discomfort in the simple thought that there may be more to existence than their simple physical realm.
When comes time to bind a man with a single word, mad, the derogatory term in which describes ones loose standing in physical existence and so follows the rot of the mind, illness that poisons the brain, is certainly applicable to the man, Hill Voyfair, a duke of Crythene, heir to the vast expanse of earth, mountain, stone and craggy waters, a jewel more radiant than the moon.
A man cursed with vast disillusions, counting the tempos bounding from the sweet music sung by the children of the night.
Existing within the confines of his lonesome, desirous heart, a gaunt mephitic voyeur.
In an evening memento in the castle by the sea, great Acheron towered proud and audacious. He stood upon pedestal, a god in armor christened with dark symbolism, weaved with pentacles of guardian intent, his coal dark hair snaked patterns through the early winter breeze, a doomed silhouette of the dead, eyes abyssal pits of black reeled with the warmth of an autumn harvest, a sweet yellow orange danced from the deep and peaked from under brow so as to say "you are seen".
He spoke in words a thunder, bellowing deep his victory.
" Herodias and I have led a phantom cavalcade through veiled and pagan history where superstitions reigned and new Gods sought to pervert, but poets of my name and my fathers sang of penumbral victories that sorcery had claimed the Graal and mighty Caliburn as votive offerings to a Crythene re-arisen under vast majestic wings." he said.
Below, a seemingly endless sea of men, women and children had raised sword, hammer or chalice in hand, a cheer for the dukes victorious campaign, a cheer cried out in honor to a victorious land. Hill raised head proud, sword brandished and eyes wide, "bring to me the great Graal of Augean! i so desire his whore son head upon pike and body burned." Graal, an earl of Augean and mighty warrior was brought before Hill Voyfair by a convoy of guards and executioners assistants, all bound in boiled leather, bearded and thick of arm, rippled in vain laced muscle. Graal followed bound and lead in hempen rope, wrists chaffed and bleeding, a musty off-white bag bound his head. The man carried a putrid scent of death and rot, wearing countless wounds housing kingdoms of maggots near as massive as grave worms.
Hill tore the bag from head to reveal Graals exceptionally average face, withshadow lined in the pale azour sunset, all faces wore a foreboding, a select ominous air perpetuated as a surge of light from a taper snuffed or flickering candle.
Graal had come from a line of pantheon tragedies, his very soul a thistles ruin.
He was a man of middle age, a consort of light despite his loss. Within ten short years he had lost his wife, mistress and two daughters to a flushing illness that plagues the small lands of Augean. This plague had been endlessly rumored as a curse cast by Cyrthene sorcerers if faith was to be had in witchcraft. His soldiers had honored him as a high lord, setting aside his lesser keep and name to worship him as a lord and commander, potentially even a father, he was in life a kind and just man yet this did not stay the blade of malicious Hill voyfair whom concerned not for this mans honor and name.
With head lowered to a block of wood, Graal kneeled and awaited the swing that was to bring his death. Hill stood, an ominous figure among shadow and malice, stroking the outermost edge of his blade, a cruel smirk spanned the width of his mouth, curling his thin lips in feverish lust for blood and the scent of deaths soil. So swung the blade, lifted in a deep arch and hammered down with great swiftness, the blade caught half through Graals thick neck, his body jerked and legs flailed as his head hung loose upon flesh, held by the men who had brought him from the cellars, Hill swung a second time and cleaved head from neck.
The body of Graal was taken to a sepulcher to be burned, his head dipped in tar and mounted upon a pike.
Hill tapped his toes within his dark leather boots, a habit carried from childhood, he had a certain restlessness to him, rare was a time when he stood in stillness, be it the incised tapping of a foot or hand or the chewing of his cheeks, fondling of his hair or the swaying of his torso. He was plagues by relentless itching, when body armor denied him the privilege of relief anxiety would cause tension within himself. His stress climbed in rank, the crowed becoming overwhelming as his display of power came to a conclusion, seas of roaring citizens deafened him to his own thoughts. He leaped from the platform which had acted as an oaken pedestal and waded through the crowd. A mass of stone buildings lined either side each a dull pearl, forgetting how to shine as light faded and night was born. Candles flickered from within windows, displaying a lovers embrace in a boxed silhouette.
Oh how lovers pained him, Hill whom saw himself a foul shade, unlovable and untouchable, putrid and raw, disgust incarnate.
So irrational was his self perspective that his mother would often have him beaten, claiming that few evils rival the encompassing darkness of lying to ones self, her wise words were never taken for valid as Hill brushed them off like he would a sheet of dust over an old book. His ways were set and perspectives complete, he viewed no room for expansion in this, his terms were his alone as were his thoughts, perspectives and understandings, mayhaps none could quite comprehend that he bore a mind unalike to any in the known in Crythene. He was a consort of daemons, spirits from across great veils of illusion, and the white rose castle, bound in a space which none can reach, it is said to him that a princess lurks within a dispirited temple surrounded by an endless ankle high lake of wolfs bane bloom, a flower whom grows in shallow water, eating the rot inflicted upon the earth by the encompassing waters, these flowers bloom as white roses, beautiful and magnificent, ominous and foreboding for their poison is among the deadliest known to man. His walk took him to the town gates, a wide marble arch strung with vines climbing like corrupted veins, burrowing and clinging to the splits of mortar, a den of a home, a strong hold so that they may expand to the furthest reaches of the great arch. Hill removed his gloves and itched vigorously at his wrists with long, uncut fingernails, he placed his gloves aside as he sat, back supported by the arch yet he noted a strange glow emitting from within the darkness of the surrounding woodland.
His eyes caught upon the sway of a distant lantern, bobbing hypnotically.
He had opened his mouth to usher the word hello, curious as to who may be delving into the woods at night, cautious of threat, but his words caught in his mouth, the lantern came nearer and he took to his feet, gloves left abandoned like unwanted food thrown to waste by fat trader lord of Augean. Each step he took lead him into thicker wood and denser forest. His hand curled around the hilt of his blade, eyes ever watchful on the lantern, eventually a figure was to be seen in the glow of light, a black candle became visible within the encasing glass of the steel bound lantern. The two men met, Hill standing tall, dark hair hanging loosely over his face, the man holding the lantern wore a grizzled face, alike to a leather mask, his eyes glazed over with cataracts, his body was clad in lycanthrope fur and threadbare cloth. Twigs and brush broke beneath his feat as he neared Hill, leaning closely into his face, even as Hill took steps back, uncertain of the hermits intent, but he then spoke, " Even a man who is pure in the heart and speaks in prayer by night may become a wolf when the wolf's bane blooms and the winter moon is bright" he said through a tight jaw and rancid breath, his words sounded strange for his tongue was a ruin, rotten and thin, he had chewed and eaten flesh off this muscle for years and its toll had been made apparent. Hill had been taken aback by these words, searching his mind for response yet all that he could find in the caverns of his head were the simple words, "what is it that you mean?"
The hermit did not answer immediately, a silence surrounded them and choked the life from the air until the man turned, his lantern flickered and died, his silhouette faded into black, entirely unseen, so much so that Hill raked the surrounding lands with concentrated eye, screeching for his return, no trace of the man remained.
Vermilion skies broke above, disembodied voices echoed from its