Monday, April 29, 2019

Fantasy Fiction

(Something to write during moments when I am awake and dealing with my insomnia, this will come in snippets of a few paragraphs at a time.  In the end I hope to have a fully written short story to share.)

From the yellow stone fortress of Khalka on the Eastern frontiers of the Steppes of Assuranan, to the wicked alleys of Holy Shefrim, with bronze towers winking amidst the sandstorms of the Outlands of Dust; it is mighty Pi-Atum, which rises up as the decaying capital of the Necrogarchy of Leng.

The crowded market of the Black Madonna sprawls like a caravan girl, splayed out on her back at the feet of the Razor Tower of Upshan'kaphor, beating heart of this city of the dead.  I am a straight edge ghoul of the Necromasters and if I need or even deserve a name it must be Sorrow, for that is what I am most often called.

I was once told that I've been dead almost two hundred years, which is a long time for a ghoul to survive in the service of her Dread Lord.  I've come to credit this to a combination of luck, avoidance of the swifter changes of fleshly rot brought on by indulging in my ghoulish taste for human flesh and the will of Chemnagor, Dread Lord of House Azan who has so far forsworn charging me with an impossible task, no ghoul of service could hope to return from.

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