The Dying World

Distances shift. Paths between places warp. As if this pale, lightless world possessed a will and bitter life. Its mercy curdled to wrath over a too-long age. Who are you? The grave robber with silver glittering between cracked fingernails? The mystic who would bend the world’s miserable heart away from its inevitable end?   Most likely, it makes little difference. No one has seen the sun in years. The old care more for sacrifice and god-offerings than their bawling spawn. Doomsayers are proved right time and again and embraced by hidden powers. Maybe it’s best to surrender—to trust your own instinct and skill rather than the whim of the dice? Before all is drowned in welcome silence. Life locked and failing in a DARK FORT.