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It was coming. Across the desert an intolerable cloud of heat coupled with misery, death and despair was coming, onward, through the treacherous wastelands. Nothing could stop it, and anyone that lay in its path was doomed. Men’s worst and most brutal wars were nothing compared to this new evil. People fled from it, they could run, but eventually it would catch them and leave them soulless, standing where they were caught staring blankly ahead with vacant eyes, not dead yet not alive. Cities fell, thousands were made soulless, fertile grassland and forests, farms and lakes became desert wasteland, home to nothing more than bleached bones or doomed humans. Civilisations fell under this swirl of evil, and still it continued its relentless pace, onward, onward, crushing and oozing the very essence of life from anything and everything in its path.
Victis ran, he ran as far as he could, as far away from the cloud as his legs were carry him, and still it was not far enough. It gained on him, every second of every minute of every hour, the Stormcloud, with its malevolent lighting bolts and deathly rumbles of thunder. Finally he could take no more and collapsed awaiting his fate, surrendering himself to the mercy of the Cloud. Yet it had no mercy, and Victis felt the pain of a thousand needles and the heat of a thousand candles sweep over him as the Stormcloud passed over him. He felt the very roots of his body pull apart and vibrate in their sockets and bonds, aching to be free. Something deep inside him teared itself slowly apart, and he felt his very essence of life slip away, taken from him by a callous and inhuman enemy. Then Victis’s soul left him, and he felt no more.
The Cloud continued its purge westward. All tried to stop it, none succeeded. In a few days all that was left was one city, protected by guards shaking in fear in their metal armour, with women huddling in their houses clutching babies and young ones tight , with husbands relentlessly pacing nearby, all awaiting their fate. The cloud seemed to slow, as if it was relishing the cities destruction, before passing the battlements, turning them all to dust, and pressing onward into the heart of the city. As the last section of the city was consumed by this fearsome daemon, the inhabitants could do nothing more than gaze upward powerless to their fate as the dark cloud of apocalypse stole over them.
The world was lost.
Victis ran, he ran as far as he could, as far away from the cloud as his legs were carry him, and still it was not far enough. It gained on him, every second of every minute of every hour, the Stormcloud, with its malevolent lighting bolts and deathly rumbles of thunder. Finally he could take no more and collapsed awaiting his fate, surrendering himself to the mercy of the Cloud. Yet it had no mercy, and Victis felt the pain of a thousand needles and the heat of a thousand candles sweep over him as the Stormcloud passed over him. He felt the very roots of his body pull apart and vibrate in their sockets and bonds, aching to be free. Something deep inside him teared itself slowly apart, and he felt his very essence of life slip away, taken from him by a callous and inhuman enemy. Then Victis’s soul left him, and he felt no more.
The Cloud continued its purge westward. All tried to stop it, none succeeded. In a few days all that was left was one city, protected by guards shaking in fear in their metal armour, with women huddling in their houses clutching babies and young ones tight , with husbands relentlessly pacing nearby, all awaiting their fate. The cloud seemed to slow, as if it was relishing the cities destruction, before passing the battlements, turning them all to dust, and pressing onward into the heart of the city. As the last section of the city was consumed by this fearsome daemon, the inhabitants could do nothing more than gaze upward powerless to their fate as the dark cloud of apocalypse stole over them.
The world was lost.
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It was coming. Across the desert an intolerable cloud of heat coupled with misery, death and despair was coming, onward, through the treacherous wastelands. Nothing could stop it, and anyone that lay in its path was doomed. Men’s worst and most brutal wars were nothing compared to this new evil. People fled from it, they could run, but eventually it would catch them and leave them soulless, standing where they were caught staring blankly ahead with vacant eyes, not dead yet not alive. Cities fell, thousands were made soulless, fertile grassland and forests, farms and lakes became desert wasteland, home to nothing more than bleached bones or doomed humans. Civilisations fell under this swirl of evil, and still it continued its relentless pace, onward, onward, crushing and oozing the very essence of life from anything and everything in its path.
Victis ran, he ran as far as he could, as far away from the cloud as his legs were carry him, and still it was not far enough. It gained on him, every second of every minute of every hour, the Stormcloud, with its malevolent lighting bolts and deathly rumbles of thunder. Finally he could take no more and collapsed awaiting his fate, surrendering himself to the mercy of the Cloud. Yet it had no mercy, and Victis felt the pain of a thousand needles and the heat of a thousand candles sweep over him as the Stormcloud passed over him. He felt the very roots of his body pull apart and vibrate in their sockets and bonds, aching to be free. Something deep inside him teared itself slowly apart, and he felt his very essence of life slip away, taken from him by a callous and inhuman enemy. Then Victis’s soul left him, and he felt no more.
The Cloud continued its purge westward. All tried to stop it, none succeeded. In a few days all that was left was one city, protected by guards shaking in fear in their metal armour, with women huddling in their houses clutching babies and young ones tight , with husbands relentlessly pacing nearby, all awaiting their fate. The cloud seemed to slow, as if it was relishing the cities destruction, before passing the battlements, turning them all to dust, and pressing onward into the heart of the city. As the last section of the city was consumed by this fearsome daemon, the inhabitants could do nothing more than gaze upward powerless to their fate as the dark cloud of apocalypse stole over them.
The world was lost.
Victis ran, he ran as far as he could, as far away from the cloud as his legs were carry him, and still it was not far enough. It gained on him, every second of every minute of every hour, the Stormcloud, with its malevolent lighting bolts and deathly rumbles of thunder. Finally he could take no more and collapsed awaiting his fate, surrendering himself to the mercy of the Cloud. Yet it had no mercy, and Victis felt the pain of a thousand needles and the heat of a thousand candles sweep over him as the Stormcloud passed over him. He felt the very roots of his body pull apart and vibrate in their sockets and bonds, aching to be free. Something deep inside him teared itself slowly apart, and he felt his very essence of life slip away, taken from him by a callous and inhuman enemy. Then Victis’s soul left him, and he felt no more.
The Cloud continued its purge westward. All tried to stop it, none succeeded. In a few days all that was left was one city, protected by guards shaking in fear in their metal armour, with women huddling in their houses clutching babies and young ones tight , with husbands relentlessly pacing nearby, all awaiting their fate. The cloud seemed to slow, as if it was relishing the cities destruction, before passing the battlements, turning them all to dust, and pressing onward into the heart of the city. As the last section of the city was consumed by this fearsome daemon, the inhabitants could do nothing more than gaze upward powerless to their fate as the dark cloud of apocalypse stole over them.
The world was lost.
Page: