T E N E B R A E
On my body, the grace of shadows
and in my heart: all Hells
and in my heart: all Hells
Slowly he moves through the woodland, letting the light of the moon play across his skin. The urge to swallow the light is an itch that will not abate. His skin twitches with the desire and he feels the cold of midnight pressing deep into his bones.
There is much about this woodland that paints Tenebrae as a creature of its own. Without his shadows he is the silver of a moonlit night - he is white and greys and blacks. In the distance a woman wails and the monk’s head tilts to better hear it. It drifts and echoes all around him. She speaks with a thousand voices and the Stallion does not smile, but adrenaline leaps as sparks through his veins. They propell the stallion deeper into the woodland, they make it stride as smooth as silk, as light as a lion in hunt.
It is unclear whether he stalks the ghost, or whether she stalks him. Yet deeper into the woodland the shadow Disciple roams and the more the darkness whispers for him to employ them
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
