Bells & Burial

There’d been a cimmerian obscurity for quite some time, a devilry, a condoling dread braising through every vein, every fibre of this odious, bedraggled graveyard’s being. Where, exactly? It was a truncated question that replayed over and over, like frazzling inconsistencies. Soon, mayhap, this nightmare will simply end; but then, as if slumber no longer fought to tyrant the woman’s brain, an existential awakening slowly devised those dreams into a nonsensical, yet ocular reality. A blaze of blurriness sieved past as she blinked awake, groggy and fitful of how to feel –– emotions, of course, were hardly a conception. Lebraid breathed, heavily, a ghastly distortion oiling the back of her throat into some wet, soporose rumble, bleakly guttural to the core. Howbeit, her stony, monochromous gaze slaved over the landscape, trying to make sense of it as everything mauled together.

What paled the once ever-blue ether, perchance?

Was it blood? A bonfire? A ring of celebratory purges, pogrom’s, bodies of the decrepit and unworthy?

It seemed all too covetous -- a droll, vibrant vermilion radiated above, sultry chills of a presage, sinistral air crowning the cacodemon’s fur -- it truly was divine. There’s nothing more feting than death, right? She’d wreath a grisly exhale, expressions completely void and doughty, all while attempting to gain those bags of bearings, metaphorically speaking. Staring, the wizened and sun-bleached stones had fabricated far into the welkin at heights quite unfathomable, whet like harpoons of olden wars. She hadn’t yet noticed the oddities of those anomalous, foreign carvings; everything seemed so eldritch, and Lebraid relished in it for a while longer, contrary to the baleful whistles and malnourished shrills. A chasmic, hellish grunt thrummed from the depths of the wolf’s belly, gyrating sleeves of svelte, gloopy drool contouring over ebony lips, disturbingly unkempt. Did she care, though? No, absolutely not –– standing from the earth, an aura of capricious dread practically bled from this walking graveyard’s demeanour. Oh, to what will this owe the pleasure?

Action. | “Speech.” | Skill.

“Wrong me once, I’ll kill you twice.”