Court of a Fallen
The Wicked
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Distant corner of a distant island.
Through barren lands and woods never trodden.
Over hills over mountains through desolation of civilizations long dead.
If you'd make it there alive and sane you would find a fortress gigantic and ever so slightly shifting.
Behind the uneasy walls there would be gods.
Nine of them.
What could frighten the gods?
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Nevertheless, their forces were on the move.
The fallen lords Gods shunned by the righteous.
Armies of the nine spreading like a wildfire.
Hacking, slashing, crushing.
Burning, boiling, eating.
Laughing, crying, howling.
Insane, twisted, wicked.
Burn! for the glory of the nine.
Burn! The righteous to ashes.
Burn! The world aflame.
Purifying We reap. Putrifying The diseased.