The shadows we caste take shape and become monsters…
The plains were beating with rain, the black rock sweated oil into cauldron of the crator like valley, there it bubbled before a singular citadel. Standing upon a balcony was a figure, clade in crimson and black leather, his eyes burning coals and his hair curly like branches of gnarled oaks. He watched as the pool of shadow began to stir, penetrating the black ink surface was claws painted in kind, that raised up in adoration of dark creation.
The Dark One watched as figures formed in this pit, their heads naked as newborns. Their eyes which they wiped with their onyx nails glowed amber and they looked upon The Dark One standing on the balacony with arms crossed. The Black Spawn let out a growl that was met with the thunder of clouds. The Dark Born was joined by others who all waded, their legs kicking in the oil as they made for the Fortress.
The trails of ink all converged as black roads at the main gate, with hand prints of shadow all over the coral gate with its splintered wood and cracks. The door to the citadel was slightly ajar, inside was gray stone floors, and great chandelier of brass with candles flickering and burning out. A long ebony table of knotted wood sat center and all the carol velvet chairs were knocked over. From there was spiral stairs in many directions, one that had dripping black drops rolling down each step.
The Great Room at the top of those ink stained steps was dark, all lights snuffed out with only the outside balcony and the sporadic white cracks in the clouds emerging to show the Dark One standing with his back to the black room. Stirring in the shadows was movement, and many embers that formed in two peering at the back of the Dark Figure. Rising out of the room’s threahold was many clawed hands with loose joints that contorted like a web of forearms. The Dark One did not stir, he closed his eyes as the ashen nails like sharp rock points nearly touched his locks, then stopped and recoiled into the darkness.
The Dark One turned in a step and pivoted on his heel till he was facing the interior, there was a growl, as the amber flames all peered at him, and then he opened his lids, two burning coals of matching fire that made the others dancing in the dark, one set of coals drew closer, till a face pale gray skin emerged, its mouth full of white fangs. The Spawn bowed down and breathed feverishly, as it said,
“Jaarvek [Father]..”
