Reign of Monsters

Arkhan of Old

“We may have been wrong. Depicted old Arkhan as the blackest void filled with all sort rancorous monsters. That they dwelled in the ichor of the first Hells. Fornicated in the dark, that they slaughtered one another with an indifferent sort of… Kindness. That their home was inhospitable and promoted only pain and disillusion.

But we were right in part. Monsters. Oh, they filled old Arkhan to its brim. Few Sable’sa dared to settle within its region. When the trees had yet to fossilize, die, and evolve. That silent claimed untold lives. To hunger, to thirst, to the archfiends. Blood was not an acquired taste to them. And when one was stricken down, its body bloomed. Sprouted… For those things we called trees were but the ghosts of elder things wretched.

As the forest grew, so did their numbers. Demons fruited from the trees of their betters. Wraiths became of Sable’s consumed by the ichor. By the mahken wild and feral. They danced amongst themselves, killing and being killed by demons for their ascension to Daemon. And so did the daemon’s feed upon the lesser demons. Using their profound remains in further ascension, ascension to Gods. Though… those capable of achieving godhood were few and far between.

Soons the woods did writhe. The oldest of trees dropping the vilest of fruit. But yet, this… Evil? Was it? Or it be nature… The learned, the need of survival. That uncertainty the others around one may have sought peace or war. This, affliction, did not spread outside Arkhan. It consolidated instead. Turned incestuous… Turned quickly to necromantic nightmare.

That is why they say our soil is black. Stained by the blood of the fallen fiends. Why our trees whisper and writhe like no other region. Why things seem to slither out from under the olden bark. Why the water pales as if remembering fear– darkens as if wishing its return. Why the mountains tremble as if fearing the return of kings.”

“Oh and for kings there were. The first King of Red was a violent thing. Wearing a crown of bones and desecrated corpses. Swathed in crimson cloth stained black at its tattered ends. With his sword of glass he cut down whatever laid in his unyielding wrath. The King of Red was nomadic, and in his wake did blood and the thickest thorns follow. A face split three ways, all teeth no tongue to devour. Four legs and four arms to trample the young and steal their souls. For The King of Red showed you how to Kill."

"The King of Blue was next in line, haunting the water. From his snout and several tongues did he sing so beautifully. Swaying in tune to his own treacherous maw his mane of a deepest black followed from a long neck. As the curious and the beguiled approached. The King of Blue would lead them deep into the water. Deep into the dreariest of deaths.

The King of Yellow brought the end of mental fortitude. Three heads saw to annihilate thought. One to speak to break those who could hear. One to see through into the thoughts of those unhearing. One to slip between reality to twist those warded. Weaving yellow string all throughout the trees. A tangled web, a cradle, a false halo…"

"The King of Green be the epitome of the wasted. Ruthless retribution came lashing in her tails. Rotted meat hung on withered bones. Bramble and bracket screamed at her coming. The wraiths died at her arrival. The demons cowered and transmuted as The King of Green barred her teeth.

The King of White saw you adrift and misplaced. Alone with no haste to make. A death needeth no grave, for they always would arise. For all that breaks, must bend first. It saw the end, it says a prayer for you. For what won’t break shall rise. The King of White showed you how to Die."