An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, a perpetual chill fading as the warmth locked within flesh met the night air of Astrea. There was nothing comforting about this warmth, it was wrong and twisted, it teased the mind, frolicked through the deepest fears of a person stocking and nurturing the madness within.

[Sorrow is a relentless and faithful companion]

These words echoed unheard, rippling through the darkness as a figure flickered again into existence. It seemed to fuse with the soft light of Astrea, dancing in the wamrth that hugged its body, finding comfort in the morbid wamrth of the flayed, and yet, everywhere it passed, blood bloomed like mist—tainting the air with the iron tang of death.

The sound of torn flesh, and crashed bones filled the silent night, giving company to those who gave their lives for the feast.

The morbid presence of death brought with it a coldness and dread, but after the first death they were prepared, there was anguish, betrayal acceptance.

And sorrow—sorrow for those who watched their loved ones slaughtered like worthless animals, the lives they had treasured... treated nothing more than weeds.

The whimpers of terrified beasts and mortals caught in the crossfire followed the delicate rattling of chains… that reaped lives far greater than any sword or repear's blade could have.

They bit into flash devouring it right of bones, crashing the bones for their marrow, discarding blood as though it were nothing more than an overly sweet dessert.

The delicate chains were fast, swift and especially ruthless, but non of the victims were even able to see them move, only the pain of being eaten alive registered them to the fact that they would not live anymore.

Their cries had long moved beyond anger and hate, surrendering instead to acceptance and despair. The sorrow in their hearts birthed the Hollow Litany.

Its presence made the air colder still, though it bore no power. It simply wept. It wept because even the divine they had worshipped for so long could do nothing but watch as its followers were butchered—not for war, not for revenge, but for nourishment. Nothing but flesh for a feast of a singular person whose appetite did not satiate even after ten had, been ground to bone ash and bloody mist.

Even after more were gone it did not stop. And when the mortals were done, the beasts that were in the vicinity attracted by the dense scent of blood became appetisers.

But there was comfort in knowing this: even if no one came to their aid, sorrow had accompanied them to the very end.

All that was missing was rain—to drown out their tears, for they could cry no longer.

There was no mercy given to anyone. As long as they were made of flesh, they would fall just the same—nothing more than game and sustenance for this terrible being.

With every step it took, the bloody mist thickened. The light filtering through the trees grew distorted, the landscape turning eerie and dreamlike.

[Neither fading nor yielding, untouched by Time's passage, only growing heavier and more profound with death's mercy]

A whisper followed the dead. It soothed their aching souls, tearing the pain from their beings, granting them peace at last.

Sorrow could not help them in life. But in death, she offered peace.

Blood and flesh discarded by the chains from their vessels, now caked structures and shredded foliage—a haunting reminder of what it meant to witness true horror.

In the dirge of death and carnage, even sorrow and its virtues felt meaningless.

Bones were ground to dust, covering the earth in morbid beauty. The screams of the terrified and the dying formed a song—a melody of horror and meaning.

Delicate crystal-like chains swung and snaked through structures and foliage, searching for prey. With every pass, they tore flesh from bone, skin discarded without care. Blood of their ancestors spat out like worthless garbage.

A soft grunt of frustration accompanied each swing, but the violence never ceased, it only grew more savage and desperate, as the hunger consumed this being.

It wasn't long before the village and its surroundings were stripped of life. What had once been a haven of blue foliage and earthen homes, warmed by sacred furnaces, was now a vision torn straight from hell.

Homes lay in ruins. The sacred fire was extinguished, leaving only ash.

The earth was dyed red, adorned with shades that resonated with the eerie silence of a ghost town. The once-beautiful foliage was shredded, soaked in blood, giving it another form of beauty.

As the blood mist began to settle, a figure emerged.

A young woman stood, clad in a skin-tight black robe that hugged every inch of her flesh, revealing her curves—perky mounds, full hips, and a silhouette no cloth could hide. She may have once been petite, but her body was still changing, reshaped by the flesh of the dying, the screams of the unwillingness and pleas for mercy.

Her face was entirely covered, save for a small slit that revealed molten silver eyes—familiar and unreadable. They glowed with depth... and sorrow.

She did not look at the carnage with pride. Nor did she show the malevolence one might expect from someone who had slaughtered innocents leaving nothing but horrendous disregard for the sanctityof life.

No—there was loathing. Loathing for herself. And yet, anyone who looked would know: if she had to, she would do it again.

The reasons were hers alone, even if it meant living a life of repentance to pay off her karma she would do it again.

This village was, ironically, one of the lucky survivors of the Surge.

Made up of mortals alone, albeit special, they had no way to defend themselves against the abominations that plagued the world. Monsters that gave headaches to families with centuries of of unfathomable depth.

And yet, they had survived a year of darkness and terror from beyond the walls. How?

There were many theories, she could come up with, but three stood out to her.

The first: the House Silverflame, her family, had most likely kept the worst of the Surge at bay, and therfore thos place did not see much of what would have overrun them in a matter of seconds.

The second: the village's position, deep in one of larger and nearest terrace to the wall of The East Cardinal, was so hidden that most would never find it without guidance. A place that barely saw any attention from the ruling powers because of the people that occupied it being worthless commoners, that would explain why the abominations had not found it and why she had not know of it before and it might have cont8nued like that if she did not stumble upon it the monet she finished her awakening.

And the third—and perhaps the most important—was the blue-silver foliage surrounding the village. A plant that seemed to confuse the senses. She had noticed the odd number that had been grown to encompass the entirty of the settlement turned village. Even now, having shed mortality and become a Walker, her senses were still being dulled by it, when that should not have happened, especially since she was growing all the more stronger the more she feasted.

It was a mysterious and strange testament to how the villagers had survived without aid from her house.

This plant was not documented by them and that was a reason to raise alarms in her head, for it was difficult for their to be a mutated plant species that they had no knowledge of, especially in their own province.

Perhaps the plant had changed them, made them resistant to its effects.

The sorrow in the place did not lift even after every living thing in it had been slaughtered.

Had she noticed the subtleties of her surroundings, she might have uncovered more.

But her resolve—her grief-driven determination—had blinded her to the truth of her actions.

And one day, that blindness would be her undoing.

Or perhaps fate had something else in store… for the young widow.

Istrabell inhaled sharply. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, heart racing to keep pace with her body's demands.

She didn't want to look at the carnage. But the world would not let her ignore the cost.

Everywhere she looked: carnage.

Gruesome carnage.

Even now, in death's silence, she could hear their screams. Their pain. Their hatred. Their sorrow.

It was overwhelming.

Anyone else would have broken down.

Asked themselves: What have I done?

But she only needed to look at the chains that snaked through her flesh, and the emotions would vanish—ripped from her so violently, she would have spat blood were it not for her iron will.

Just like those she had subjected to death she too had woes of her own. But it was the decision to make her woes more important than that of others that made her a cut above the others.

She would not bleed here.

Only at the hands of gods would she shed blood.

When all her sins were finally brought to judgment.

But for now, she would carry this weight.

She would not falter. Her mind would not break.

Not until she had achieved everything she set out to do.