Diiroehn
n00blet
We'll carry the blame for the hell that we can't leave.
Posts: 4
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Post by Diiroehn on Jan 8, 2009 10:54:50 GMT -5
The craven feel of unearthed corpses called to a man of the dead like the cadence of a heartbeat pounding away. It had a certain tug to its forlorn beckoning, enticing the marrow 'click' of a Lich's steps toward it's vicinity.
But firstly, allow me to explain the entirety of the situation that surrounds Diiroehn and his macabre ventures. The air is crisp and thin, cutting into the nostrils with the harshness of a cold winter's bite. The moon hangs pregnant in the sky, a terrible waxing of the climax in perfect spherical structure. Even the craters 'pon its distance surface are visible in a large degree, clear aside from the occasional dimming of its eerie radiance by a thin smog of those midnight clouds. A peculiar fog has taken up residence at an ankle-height of the vicinity, swirling with any step taken, yet holding the obscurity and blend of ashen grey that seperates it from the darkness as if out of its own accord. What few trees present are stripped bare of their leaves, curled and whithered beneath the cold grasp of the exposed air about them.
(To be continued upon when I have the time!)
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