I Hold Your Deliverance
05-20-2014, 10:09 PM
Death has come to Alacritis, once again.
A dreary winter does it's best to cloak the earth and hide it's shame, the mutilative strand of malady it had allowed to afflict all the land. An apocalypse as cruel as the dreaded Eruption, but one that applies it's undertaking subtly. This is a death that the moronic wolves cannot run from. They toil and struggle to unbind their noose, and succeed not, for they rely on frivolous herbs to somehow cease the annihilation that cannot be stopped.
And the hopeful think that this hardship can bring the Alacritians closer together, negate the wrongs between them, giving them all a common cause. This will not happen, indeed the opposite must. Tensions can only run deeper while the leaders are under this high stress. This pandemic will only be accompanied by war. They say that a calamity like this epidemic will bring out the evil in people, and that is the only fact. But it's brought some evil out of the woods, as well?
The spectre of a beast strode from the darkened woods, nearly invisible against the gloom, save for his crimson eyes. This wolf seemed to have the trademark symptom of the illness that plagued all, for blood seemed to run from his eyes down his cheeks, but this nefarious soul was already marked with his red tears long before it became a trend. The long-lost, long-forgotten trickster, the rogue, the bizarre wolf, the vile creature named Frayer strode on tall legs away from his solitude, back into the world of the living!
What had Frayer been up to? Where did he go that night he ran from his secret love in the night as she slept, leaving his one and only prized possession and memory of her behind? And why had he never poked a nose from his dark sanctuary for well over a year? None may ever know what ran through his head, but it can be well assumed that they were abhorrent thoughts and plots. The smell of herbs drifted from his stringy fur, particularly the scent of the more noxious ones. What could he be planning?
The target of his plot is certain, even if the means and objective are a mystery. He approaches the new, unknown pack that now occupies the Corpseghoul Swamp, each step sinking further into muck as he leaves the solid lands of the woods. More gloom and despair somehow blanket these lands than the rest of the ill-fated continent. No scent markers could possibly endure in the dank puddles, but the beast knew he drew close to them, the unfortunate Covaris. He stood upon their stoop finally, head held high and proud like it hadn't in a dozen months but still came easily. He did not call, as to suggest he was a visitor requesting access, but just browsed across the land through carmine eyes and evaluated it's worth. Their scout should arrive soon enough.
05-21-2014, 05:18 PM