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Vigorous wind blustered through the skeletal trees. Embracing the tomb in vine framework tombstones lay awry towards the abandoned mausoleum untouched for centuries. Terse strands of dead grass surrounded the tomb as if a shock of power had struck the once holy ground. Latin inscriptions were engraved across every inch of the gateway to keep the passage into hell sealed, and the darkness that lurks beneath within. Spirits of demons and lost souls have been held hostage for years incarcerated in the catacombs inner parts unable to roam this earth. And if you listen closely enough through the cracks on the sepulchre door you can even hear their squaws, like a trapped bird calling for help.
For an inordinate length of time the churchyard has remained self-same, with little changes. The same dull colourless skeleton trees grow the same tiresome washed out leaves and so on. Once in a while a single white rose blooms almost as if it is standing sentinel, watching over the impious land reminding it off its purity and innocence that it once possessed. Although, it isn’t long before that bloodless rose is tarnished. As soon it will begin to wilt, ready for the next beacon of hope. Inevitably there will be none.
Representing the darkness and lack of aspiration. A thick forest encircles the burial ground which surrounds the mausoleum. The whole purpose of this is to keep ordinary people out and to prevent the abnormal ones from breaking free. For millennia this has remained the case until now.
From the obscurity of the edges of the woodland. A stick snapped a clean break, and a gust of compelling wind displaced a pile of callous leaves sending them spinning, spiralling, pirouetting through the icy air. Where they are taken away in a river of moonlight that leads their way. As a second gust brushes past the dancing leaves a few stragglers are pushed back in the direction of the ground. Where they unwillingly settle at the feet of death itself.
Luminescent rays reveal a pair of bulky villainous boots covered in clotted pieces of dried out mud and debris. These are attached to a set of men’s trousers that have been viciously attacked, as if a child has been let loose with old clothes and scissors. In places the incomplete slacks have been stuck down with carmine blood which has leaked from the lacerations. Further up, an unpigmented t-shirt can be seen; it does not have any distinct markings and isn’t stained with any type of ichor. It is immaculate; not far off being brand new. Now the face, the most important part. Was not that off a young man but neither of an old man? In the direct view of the moonlight the male appeared normal. A middle aged type face with straight brown hair—around shoulder length. Dark eyes were the most noticeable part of his façade. Pitch black organs of sight that could perforate your soul if he willed them too.
Such as the cryptic gentleman stepped out from shadows of the undernourished trees, splinters of broken wood began to illuminate the clearing. One by one catching alight as if by magic. Once the enchanted fragments were ignited they formed a pentagram which is a common symbol for neo-pagan witchcraft it is also generally associated with a devils trap. The not young but old man walked through the flames of the grand pentacle towards the centre. Were he then stood facing the grand entries of the ossuary. After a spilt second, his eyes started to flicker a lively yellow and he begun to murmur an unknown chant. Just as the man was nearing the middle of his incantation the cracks in the sepulchre door begun to widen, freeing emissions of a dense gloomy smoke. Twirling, twisting, and tightening around the warlock. Suffocating him as it consumed all that was around. Only the tint of the dark azure atmosphere was noticeable now.
Finally, the last few words of the invocation were pronounced as the impenetrable smoulder completed its rounds and possessed the warlock – now demon. At last a statement was finally spoken as the cacodemon fell to the floor in a comatose state… we are free… we are free.