A dreary mansion stands at the end of a lone wood
It is a container of hidden, never-ending suffering.
Ignore the black dove's warning and the white raven's cries,
and tomorrow shall mark the first day of hell.
Paintings, mirrors, beauty
Mystery stirs in the mansion.
But beyond knowledge and beneath the wood,
The gods laugh.
The wound and the locked entrances and exits
Are not warnings; they are signs
Signs that they are approaching, waiting
Don't sleep, don't daze off, don't die.
If you can
Today or tomorrow,
No one knows when they will strike
Will they consume their prey quickly, painlessly and upon their own hollow hearts,
Or will they kill and bestow blood upon the moon?
You ignored their warnings,
So one of you died
They are not satisfied, for they want more than souls
They want blood to spill.
Before the five assembled as humans no more,
First who lusts, second is the puppeteer, third of intelligence and grace, and the fourth and fifth that should be one who are weapon and wielder,
Even they were humans, countless handfuls of hundreds of years ago,
All one has to do is turn back the clock…
They swore their loyalty to someone important,
There is a promise they must fulfil.
But to wake up the sleeping soul, takes more than just courage and apologies.
It is and was a choice between loyalty and devotion to someone and yourself.
To jolt humanity once more,
What used to be just a place where souls cry and weep
Is now just another building
But even so, mysteries still lie and linger about
Not needed to be answered
After how many years the mansion will still stand
Or maybe it would have died
Just wait, but there may be no need to fear,
For one question is still left to be asked
The ink was faded, run off from the middle of the old paper. The wind blew and the pages fluttered, bringing the book back to the first page. The wind was persistent and continued blowing, until the book was shut, revealing the cover.
Aside from it being brown, it was empty.