• The Prophecy

    From Flavio Bessa@4:801/188 to All on Mon Sep 28 17:30:05 2020

    A mountain looms above you, wreathed in mourning cloud. Crags claw upwards, grasping towards a blood-red light at its summit. The sky is ablaze and reflects the mountain’s anger as it casts down flame from above. It is troubled, wounded by those who tried to put it asunder. It rages, and its
    wrath is terrible to behold.

    A bleak mood is upon you, a hollow mantle that bears more weight than a
    curse. Your bare feet are blistered and bloody, for you have walked many leagues across the cutting rock of your death world.

    It has not been forgiving.

    But your journey is slowly reaching its end, its conclusion closer with
    every crimson impression you leave behind you.
    Scarred peaks rise to blot out the sun, though the heat of that glowering
    orb is still merciless, stealing breath, drying out life until nothing
    remains but a dusty carcass.

    At the hell-stoked foothills, you begin your ascent. Cinder and hot ash
    sear your feet, but you barely feel it.

    Hand over hand, the climb is tough, but you are driven beyond the concerns
    of fatigue. Your mind is a dense, dark pool from which you know you will
    not resurface. Your body will obey, despite the screaming agony in your
    limbs, to which you are blind, deaf and dumb.

    You rise with the numbness and monotony of a corpse given life after death,
    for are you not merely flesh-wrapped despair, your weary bones responding
    to the last vestiges of your will?

    From the summit you hear a rumble to eclipse the crash of oceans at full
    swell, a thunderous bellow from the deep earth that echoes across peak and crag. And as your eye is drawn to the burgeoning fire glow above, you see a fissure in the flank of the mountain.

    Heat and earth-blood issue from within this crack. The trailing wisps of
    smoke entice your enfeebled mind, so blighted by a son’s incompar­able sorrow.

    Above you, the rumble of the mountain’s displeasure grows into a roar. Does its anguish resonate with your own, an empathic frequency that has somehow aligned rock and flesh in grief-stricken sympathy?

    Fire rises, soaring upwards in a burning pillar that taints sky, sun and
    cloud with its fury.

    Desperation seizing your dead man’s limbs, you struggle for the fissure, discovering a cleft wide enough to admit your body.

    And as the heavens weep tears of flame, you enter the mountain to find your sanctuary and your doom. The last image of your existence is obscured by pyroclastic cloud until eventually nothing remains but a shadow and a

    Trecho de: Kyme, Nick. “Deathfire.”

    Até logo,
    Flavio Bessa

    --- NewsTap/5.4.1 (iPhone/iPod Touch)
    * Origin: Andromeda - Saturn's Orbit NNTP Gateway (4:801/188)