Message #162763

[CryptCypher]

"Lukur ina etuti asbu..."

Eighty-eight silhouettes lay silent beneath a dim Winter sun as Masalu's desperate charge breaks upon enemy flank. As the sounds of steel upon flesh and the final cries of dying men subside, the howling gale shrieks deep in all its horrid glory. Raging bonfires cast remnant shadows across a vast sea of Mattan grain, as the odor of sun-baked gore carries across its glimmering bronze stained crimson-black. With the acrid smoke of charred flesh welling unwelcome tears in the eyes of its survivors, the blood of monsters and D'harani commingle as the scarred plains drink every blasted drop.

Across the jagged Mattan coast lay quaint fishing villages whose strange peasants pray the mourning vigil in the blasphemous name of even stranger Gods... Accursed congregations toiling in those bloodied fields upon which greater men are sacrificed time and again. Trapped in a waking nightmare from which there can be no escape, their lives sustained by the profane ritual of convenient massacre come every blasted winter. The faint scent of mind-numbing Spice lingers upon one's miserable breath, a welcome diversion to ease the stark reality of this hell they call home. Though suffered years may come and go as conquering nations rise and fall, the sacrifice must always be paid - for the Old Gods' thirst is unquenchable. For the respite of those quiet villages and their peculiar denizens, the gift of life bears an unspeakable price: one whose blood-price unwitting nations have paid since time immemorial. As the pyres cast ash unto the maelstrom, and the flames die down to mere cinders, empty prayers are whispered by the foolish spawn of those who dare claim the daemon bounty of Mattan grain.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn... "

From the oft-clawed-upon shores of Sallowtown and Port Raviel, to the deathly undulations of Mattan and the Desert of Silhouettes, unwitting noblemen march without sense or reason. Opulent palaces and towering citadels abandoned to wise stewards whose craven pacifism guarantees another day may die with body and soul intact - for those who delve too far behold horrors Man was not designed to see. A distant dream by whose battered fists our soldiers cannot grasp; shattered hopes left to rot like so many bodies in a burning pyre; the collapse of proud, decadent empires whose blasphemous curiosities malign the yawning gulfs of time. Slumbering fools, dead before a drop has spilled, frayed nerves like the cords of heedless ambition grown slack as the noose by which all inevitably die.

Battered helms slip over unseeing eyes. Rust-worn blades are whet in futile gestures. A mass grave takes form... And in the dying light of bleak afternoon, those greedy plains await their unholy tribute once more.

Masalu Auru'in // 11-10-17 ; 0402 EST // IC: Winter - Day // D'hara-Dwilight: Mattan Dews (Post-Battle I ; Pre-Battle II v. monster horde)

(Half-asleep. So many ways this could be improved... I'll leave the final version for my notes/publishing and keep the original post here. Constructive criticism always appreciated.)