Existence is a humorous thing. It is a painful thing, an atrociously morbid
concept of reality that is too intricate to be understood. Maliciously, the
clouds over the dead field that surrounds the chapel churn. The steeple
of ruin has been covered by a flurry of cross-colored shades. Among
the many are the few that lie in wait, longing for the end. A spur of
curetted mystery adorns the fields as a wind of pale misery sweeps
through. It leaves behind a trail of belated answers, and a mass of
robes in black. The grim robed daemons stand shoulder to shoulder
on the brown grass of the fields. Chants of enunciated intuition strike
down the flag that pierces the reality. After every situation is a resolution,
in which the end is decided by its wide array of crowd. When that
crowd is empty, and the chapel seats are void of cloth, the outcome of
the situation is decided not by the crowd, but by the reality of the
situation itself. "When no season is dead is when they will come; a
bleak harvest will arrive with the coming season, and it will paint the
land with its blood and ash. The Harbinger will dance with his gleaming
silver blade, and behind will be the daemons that march in distraught
lunge. The march will distill fear, which
Moving Shadows