For Whom the Bell Tolls. - Printable Version

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For Whom the Bell Tolls. - Chaos - 10-31-2022

On the third night of Summer’s End
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The bell strikes midnight and the festivities are dying down, all but the most lively of the Queensland’s inhabitants are laid soundly asleep. The crisp Summer’s End air fought back by warm furs and flickering candlelight, after a long day of celebration the serenity of night has arrived.

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The first chime echoes in the dark; leaves in the wind flutter to the ground and lay still. The whistling through the trees softens to but a murmur. For not the first time in history the world is truly quiet.
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The second chime is first to break this miasma of silence. All across the realm birds fly from their trees and critters flee their dens, a growing sense of unease hangs lazily in the air.
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The third chime joins a choir of cries, animals about the land both large and small howl fretfully at the moons. Babies wail for their mothers, the whole world is awakening.
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The fourth chime fizzles out in a vacuum, this awoken world holds its breath, awaiting the next act of this grim night's performance.
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The fifth chime brings deliverance, from all directions comes a screech that wakes the dead, those who have lived long enough to have heard it before drop to their knees in anguish.
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The sixth chime is a mustering call, soldiers from across the holdfasts are called to arms, the battle they foolishly believed would never come was now come knocking at their doors.
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The seventh chime makes a declaration. The death rattle of peace and the violent birth of a lifetime of war.
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The eighth chime travels alongside the rumble of rolling wheels, a carriage untouched by dust or decay ploughs through fields of mud, fog left in its wake. Faceless things fly above it, beating scaly wings to herald their Lord.
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The ninth chime resonates with laughter, mirthful voices cry out to join them, putting the colours of migraine into the minds of any and all. A deluge of colours juxtapose horrors cast by the twisted heart of the void, alongside it visions of wildfire, of spilt blood and of a nigh untouched carnival of inhuman jesters.
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The tenth chime is accentuated by the sounds of industry, screams of the infernal creation of a thousand hungry beasts. Within the mournful howls of those condemned to be born lies a new truth, that life can often be a fate worse than death.
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The eleventh chime makes up the background of a symphony of marching boots, an oxymoronic chant of order throughout the tempest of wilderness. At the formation's head stand greaves of eldritch red.
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The twelfth chime is lost within the maelstrom, a cacophony of fire and death is the whisper of Chaos, and it wishes to scream.

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