In the depths of shadow, where sunlight dare not penetrate, they walk. We are an Guardians of a Eternal Night, chosen with a power to command shadows. My purpose is: to protect the world from that who dwell in the void. Guided by a burning compulsion, I remain as a bulwark against an encroaching darkness.
Vestiges 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 scattered, overgrown with verdant vegetation, while the echoes of laughter long since faded into the silence.
Forgotten artifacts, gleaming, lie scattered amidst the rubble, offering glimpses into a civilization that has disappeared. A palpable sorrow hangs in the air, a haunting reminder of the impermanence of all things.
Unveiled from the depths of time, these relics encapsulate a profound sense of loss and awe. They serve as a stark reminder that even the mightiest empires ultimately succumb to the ravages of time.
Bloodstained Medals on Obsidian 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 demonic lines, the result of battles fought and won. The metal itself bore the weight of countless losses, each wound bleeding crimson onto the dark shields.
An unsettling silence filled the air, as if the very medals themselves held a curse. Whispers circulated among the gathered veterans, tales of forgotten heroes and battles won at a staggering cost. Each medal told a story of valor and tragedy.
Their weight 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 absorb this somber mood, their smooth surfaces like pools of ink.
Vibrates in Vacant Thrones
Within the hallowed halls of power, echoes persist. The weight of departed rulers still haunts the air. Deserted thrones stand as silent monuments to the transient nature of authority . The scent of ambition still clings to weathered tapestries, a ghostly reminder of victories long since passed .
Still in this quiet , a new current begins to awaken . The promise for a altered future whispers through the empty halls, a chorus of change waiting to be embraced .
Echoes From a Dying World
The air sings with the last breaths of this world. Shadows coil long and thin across the landscape, painted in hues of dying embers and fading hope. The wind whispers, 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 is now but a legend. A chilling silence falls over the land, broken only by the muffled whispers of the dying world.
The Grim Reaper's Harvest
An ominous wind whispered through the forest, carrying with it a chill of decay. The stars cast pale game guides beams of light as she made his way through the bleak terrain. Her shears sparkled in the dim moonlight, a macabre reminder of the approaching doom that awaited all. The innocent searched for solace, ignorant to the grim reaper's harvest that was already here.
Some say that Death itself walks among us, a silent shadow, always observing. Many insist that he only appears to those who are near death.
- If the existence of Death's physical manifestation is real, one thing cannot be denied: life ends for all.
We can choose to live in fear but Fate's call is something we all cannot escape.