Astaroth
[*screaming into the void intensifies*]
Original poster
STAFF MEMBER
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- Invitation Status
- Not accepting invites at this time
- Posting Speed
- Speed of Light
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- It varies a lot depending on my schedule, unfortunately.
- Writing Levels
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Psychological horror
Body horror
Supernatural
Giallo
Splatterpunk
Dark fantasy
Historical
Low fantasy
Magipunk
Weird West
Noir
Thriller
Gothic horror
Southern Gothic
Gaslamp fantasy
Cyberpunk
Space saga
Clockpunk
Space Western
Space opera
Paranormal
Modern fantasy
Dieselpunk
Post-Apocalyptic
Crime drama
Medieval fantasy
That day,
in our special place,
I asked you...
"Why can't we go back?"
Do you remember what you told me then?
I wanted you to lie.
I wanted you to forgive me.
I didn't want this.
I can't explain,
but I miss you...
You've haunted me ever since.
Please...
Please say you won't forget me.
I don't want to be alone.
The town of Dormarth lies at the foot of a hill.
It is a small, sleepy town steeped in tradition. Progress is slow here. The shops are family businesses, handed down through each new generation. The local schoolhouse is a single room which scarcely seats thirty children at a time. The largest building in town- obvious at a glance from its dark spires- is the Azure Abbey; this grand stone monastery is home to Dormarth's unique religious sect, the Order of the Azure Hand.
It is in the Abbey that Zydras Shyamar was born and raised.
Of course, part of him is nervous, as well.
Of all the ceremonies that he has overseen, none is quite like the Ritual of Severance. This religious observance is of the utmost importance, held above all others. It seems simple enough. He has seen his father conduct the rites so many times over the years that Zydras would know the steps by heart. But something in his father's absolute fervor that the rules must be adhered to, the forcefulness in his words and the fire in his eyes... it has always struck him, has always left a sense of unease that Zydras cannot shake.
Zydras has never told anyone this. Even in his head, it sounds like blasphemy.
Many of the villagers do not take the ritual quite so much to heart, he knows. To them it is just another holiday, just another excuse to drink and feast. Zydras looks out of the window of the Abbey's tallest spire and sees sprigs of azure and silver adorning doors and windows, children playing in the square (allowed to roam the streets tonight, far later than any other evening), men and women purchasing new trinkets from street merchants to replace those they will soon discard.
Dusk is even now beginning to bloom as the sun sinks behind the hill, streaks of orange and pink behind the blues and greys of the yew grove. Once all the sky has dimmed, it will be time to light the pyre on the Stone Circle and begin this year's Ritual.
Zydras wets his lips and rolls a small talisman between his fingers. It is polished and carved azurewood, shaped like a human hand and strung on a leather thong. Every initiate of the order bears an identical trinket. Every initiate casts the same talisman into the flames every year, for they have nothing else to sacrifice but the symbol of their faith. It has been so for centuries, and Zydras feels that this above all else is what he likes best about the ritual. He cannot imagine what it must be like to choose what to forsake upon the pyre, to not be connected so inextricably to a greater part of their town's history.
Connection to the past, he thinks, is a strength.
With that thought held fast in his heart, he heads down the stairs and out into the streets of Dormarth to make that strength become his anew.
-CHAPTER ONE-
SOUL'S PASSAGE
SOUL'S PASSAGE
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