Bubbly_Mickey
Aspiring Siren
Inner Sanctum Nobility
They come at night.
They emerge from the fields like mist, weaving amongst the wheat with the wind. Where they come from has always been a mystery, the others don't remember when They began, and where they go is another fearful unknown. Even the oldest among us have no answers, the mind begins to slip after centuries of wandering, but they never forget to warn of Their intent every sundown.
"Roam in the homes, never in the fields. Or They will come for you, and you will be dust. Just like the rest."
That was all that was left of the Taken. Dust. Piles of ash hidden like a macabre treasure hunt within the grain. Their numbers the only indication of how many souls were taken that night as everyone scour through the grass for signs of the victims the next morning. Their numbers are always a potent warning.
Before, many of us thought that death was a release from all our anxieties. A rest from running our minds and bodies into the ground for years. But it's the opposite. Observing the living in their day-to-day moments is the final torture as we run for what's left of our afterlives night after night.
Our hangmen come for us in black hoods, with cold detachment, uncaring of who They bring. As long as someone is within their grasp. As long as They are ending the tiny kindling of a spark that once held the flame of someone's loved one.
It is a new kind of hell, to watch from the windows of a now dusty home that once held the life I took for granted until a new reality came upon me after time. Watching those things creep from the fields my father and his father tended to. Wondering if they too were taken within the bony grasp of the reapers that floated silently through the night.
Watching, as the night hit its peak and the moon started to descend.
Listening to the sharp cries only the dead could hear as our comrades struggled in Their vice like grips
As one by one, they were taken into the darkness.
They emerge from the fields like mist, weaving amongst the wheat with the wind. Where they come from has always been a mystery, the others don't remember when They began, and where they go is another fearful unknown. Even the oldest among us have no answers, the mind begins to slip after centuries of wandering, but they never forget to warn of Their intent every sundown.
"Roam in the homes, never in the fields. Or They will come for you, and you will be dust. Just like the rest."
That was all that was left of the Taken. Dust. Piles of ash hidden like a macabre treasure hunt within the grain. Their numbers the only indication of how many souls were taken that night as everyone scour through the grass for signs of the victims the next morning. Their numbers are always a potent warning.
Before, many of us thought that death was a release from all our anxieties. A rest from running our minds and bodies into the ground for years. But it's the opposite. Observing the living in their day-to-day moments is the final torture as we run for what's left of our afterlives night after night.
Our hangmen come for us in black hoods, with cold detachment, uncaring of who They bring. As long as someone is within their grasp. As long as They are ending the tiny kindling of a spark that once held the flame of someone's loved one.
It is a new kind of hell, to watch from the windows of a now dusty home that once held the life I took for granted until a new reality came upon me after time. Watching those things creep from the fields my father and his father tended to. Wondering if they too were taken within the bony grasp of the reapers that floated silently through the night.
Watching, as the night hit its peak and the moon started to descend.
Listening to the sharp cries only the dead could hear as our comrades struggled in Their vice like grips
As one by one, they were taken into the darkness.