In the depths of darkness, where beams dare not penetrate, we walk. It are a Warriors of an Eternal Night, blessed with a power to wield shadows. Our purpose is: to safeguard that world from those who hide in the shadow. Fueled by a eternal need, I stand as an bulwark against a encroaching night.
Relics of a Fallen Age
The crumbling structures stand as stark testimonies to a bygone era, their weathered stones whispering tales of grandeur and decay. Once majestic palaces now lay ruined, overgrown with verdant vegetation, while the echoes of laughter long since faded into the silence.
Ancient artifacts, tarnished, lie scattered amidst the rubble, offering glimpses into a civilization that has perished. A palpable desolation hangs in the air, a soulful reminder of the impermanence of all things.
Unearthed from the depths of time, these relics convey a profound sense of loss and wonder. They serve as a poignant reminder that even the mightiest empires ultimately succumb to the ravages of time.
Crimson Marks Upon Black Shields
Upon the polished obsidian surfaces, where shadows danced and secrets whispered, lay a throng of medals. Each one was etched with the visage of a fallen hero, their faces now marred by cruel lines, the result of battles fought and won. The substance itself bore the weight of countless deaths, each wound bleeding crimson onto the dark shields.
An unsettling silence filled the air, as if the very medals themselves held a curse. Rumors circulated among the gathered soldiers, tales of forgotten heroes and battles won at a staggering cost. Each medal told a story of valor and sacrifice.
Their coldness served as a constant reminder, not only of the fallen but also of the ever-present threat that loomed over them all. The obsidian shields themselves seemed to reflect this somber mood, their smooth surfaces like pools of shadow.
Vibrates in Vacant Thrones
Within the hallowed halls of power, echoes persist. The burden of former rulers still lingers the air. Deserted thrones stand as silent monuments to the transient nature of rule . The fragrance of power still clings to weathered tapestries, a spectral reminder of triumphs long since passed .
Yet in this quiet , a new tide begins to stir . The potential for a different future murmurs through the empty halls, a chorus of change waiting to be unleashed .
Echoes From a Dying World
The air sings with the last breaths of this world. Shadows stretch long and thin across the landscape, painted in hues of dying embers and fading hope. The wind screams, carrying tales of a lost glory, a symphony of despair played on the strings of reality. Beneath the oppressive sky, remnants of civilization cling. They search for meaning in these final moments, grasping at specters of a past that never truly existed. A chilling silence wraps over the land, broken only by the muffled whispers of the dying world.
The Grim Reaper's Harvest
A spectral wind whispered through the plains, carrying with it the scent of destruction. The stars cast long, eerie shadows as it took its way through the silent landscape. Her shears sparkled in the eerie darkness, a grim reminder of the finality of life that awaited all. The innocent hid in their homes, unaware of the grim reaper's harvest that was upon trophy hunters them.
Legends whisper that He who Collects Souls walks among us, a lurking terror, always waiting. Some believe that he only appears to those facing their final moments.
- Regardless of the Grim Reaper is true, one thing cannot be denied: our time on earth is finite.
We can choose to accept it as a natural part of the cycle but the Grim Reaper's harvest is something we all cannot escape.