Post by rumblefishgg on Mar 6, 2013 13:19:53 GMT -5
In this labyrinth, light was laid to rest. The cascading waterfall obscured the scenery of the island to a purgatory filled with dense fog. It was unknown to many inhabitants of Kyril how life transgressed on this island, for it seemed that the wealth of hostile entities rendered the area into a diabolic hive. This island was a proving ground to the able souls that intervene in its day-to-day affairs. Those who entered this island were sure not to survive lest they surpassed the prowess of the demons that riddled this place - or became a demon themselves.
As it was purported in mythologies and cultures far removed from Kyril, the everlasting presence of the mist was a sign that death was destined to approach any and all that called this island their home. One creature would be killed today - or perhaps ten - or, given the eternal grace of the mist, as many as all of the creatures could die at any time. No soul was safe from the fog.
As the silhouette of the knight roamed the island, it seemed that Death had finally arrived to take its salaries. However, with the presence of the demons ever growing in their roost, it seemed that Death was unsatisfied with his spoils, thusly taking initiative to demand higher wages. Each step Hristo took was followed by a discordant whistle of the wind, the shadows whirling at his feet and leaving a trail where he walked. The mist that surrounded the island contrasted these black hues, leaving the trail ever so distinct in its wake.
"Hrrgh..." He howled in some distorted echo, as if mocking the hostile life on this island to listen to him. He left it up to interpretation what that howl actually meant, whether it was a war cry to garner attention, or a distant cry for help.
As it was purported in mythologies and cultures far removed from Kyril, the everlasting presence of the mist was a sign that death was destined to approach any and all that called this island their home. One creature would be killed today - or perhaps ten - or, given the eternal grace of the mist, as many as all of the creatures could die at any time. No soul was safe from the fog.
As the silhouette of the knight roamed the island, it seemed that Death had finally arrived to take its salaries. However, with the presence of the demons ever growing in their roost, it seemed that Death was unsatisfied with his spoils, thusly taking initiative to demand higher wages. Each step Hristo took was followed by a discordant whistle of the wind, the shadows whirling at his feet and leaving a trail where he walked. The mist that surrounded the island contrasted these black hues, leaving the trail ever so distinct in its wake.
"Hrrgh..." He howled in some distorted echo, as if mocking the hostile life on this island to listen to him. He left it up to interpretation what that howl actually meant, whether it was a war cry to garner attention, or a distant cry for help.