Weaving through the endless pathways, and the high stairs to the Temple were the many minions of the Cruent. Blood worshippers – they always knew that one day the Goddess of Death and her peaceful, calm worshippers at the end of their swords.
The stairs were littered with the heavy footfalls of the armoured minions, all ready to lay siege on the defenceless halls of the worshippers. And with the flimsiest of causes to back it. The soldiers – those mindless weapons of loyalty- stood firm as their captain walked, open steel garnishing the little light shining.
“We are the instruments of our Order…” His voice, laced with the same steel, rang out.
“We speak with steel…”
“We hear with plate…”
“We conquer with strength.”
The soldiers blew with the furious ruckus before the battle as the captain smiled eerily. His jet hair shone through the blue light of night as he waited for the answer.
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The fight was magnanimous in scale, and microcosmic in nature. The horns bellowed, signalling the death of a hundred and one disciples. Again and again.
The captain’s voice, still laced with steel, now paralleled his sword in bloodthirst as he clamoured for the assassin’s life. Steel upon steel. Again.
All he heard was silence as the drum beats of the battle swung monotonously.
He heard them join in a radiant corona inside his head, with the moan of men’s voices forming the foreground. His blade lifted itself slowly as he walked out to face them.
Another low growl joined the sounds inside his head as the world moved in slow motion. He unsheathed his blade and ran out…