In the depths of darkness, where rays dare not penetrate, they walk. We are a Warriors of an Eternal Night, blessed with an power to wield darkness. Their purpose is: to protect that world from those who dwell in an abyss. Driven by a fierce need, they stand as the bulwark against the encroaching darkness.

Vestiges of a Fallen Age

The crumbling structures stand as stark reminders to a bygone era, their weathered stones whispering tales of grandeur and decay. Once majestic palaces now lay abandoned, overgrown with lush vegetation, while the whispers of laughter long since faded into the silence.

Timeworn artifacts, battered, lie scattered amidst the rubble, portraying glimpses into a civilization that has disappeared. A palpable melancholy hangs in the air, a haunting reminder of the impermanence of all things.

Unveiled from the depths of time, these relics encapsulate a profound sense of loss and awe. They serve read more as a solemn reminder that even the mightiest empires ultimately succumb to the ravages of time.

Bloodstained Medals on Obsidian Shields

Upon the polished obsidian surfaces, where shadows danced and secrets whispered, lay a multitude of medals. Each one was etched with the visage of a fallen hero, their faces now marred by demonic lines, the result of battles fought and drawn. The metal itself bore the weight of countless deaths, each wound bleeding crimson onto the dark shields.

A hushed reverence filled the air, as if the very medals themselves held a curse. Whispers circulated among the gathered warriors, tales of forgotten heroes and battles won at a ghastly cost. Each medal told a story of valor and sacrifice.

Their weight served as a constant reminder, not only of the fallen but also of the ever-present threat that loomed over them all. The obsidian shields themselves seemed to absorb this somber mood, their smooth surfaces like pools of night.

Resounds in Deserted Thrones

Within the vast halls of power, echoes persist. The burden of departed rulers still permeates the air. Deserted thrones stand as silent monuments to the fleeting nature of dominion . The aroma of conquest still clings to weathered tapestries, a haunting reminder of triumphs long since faded .

Still in this quiet , a new tide begins to awaken . The possibility for a different future murmurs through the empty halls, a symphony of change waiting to be unleashed .

Whispers From The Dying World

The air sings with the last breaths of this world. Shadows dance long and thin across the landscape, painted in hues of dying embers and fading hope. The wind screams, carrying tales of a vanished glory, a symphony of grief played on the strings of reality. Beneath the heavy sky, remnants of civilization cling. They search for meaning in these final moments, grasping at specters of a past that is now but a legend. A chilling silence plunges over the land, broken only by the soft whispers of the dying world.

The Grim Reaper's Harvest

An ominous wind whispered through the forest, carrying with it a chill of decay. The sun cast pale beams of light as it took its way through the silent landscape. Her shears glistened in the fading light, a horrifying reminder of the inevitable end that awaited all. The innocent hid in their homes, unaware of the death's embrace that was just moments away.

Some say that Death itself walks among us, a lurking terror, always waiting. Others claim that it manifests to those facing their final moments.

• Regardless of Death's physical manifestation is real, one thing cannot be denied: life ends for all.

We can choose to accept it as a natural part of the cycle but the Grim Reaper's harvest is something we all cannot escape.