The Desecrated Savant
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Ongoing<5 mins
Last published Mon, Jun 29, 2015
What is this madness?
What has the world come to?
Blood runs through the land like rivers,
The people cry out in pain on the streets.
The governing authorities run amok, naked in their iniquities.
The people, they beg and plead, grovel and pray for redemption.
For all is lost, the darkness has descended.
For who can be our savior, when no one can match the power of this darkness?
Darkness taints the land, which has become cursed beyond blessing.
It seeps deep into the spirit of the world, drowning it in suffering.
What is this malediction, this anathema?
What gruesome game of the gods is this?
For all hope is lost, and we cry out in our anguish for salvation.
The ascension of the darkness leaves us dead in our plight.
We fall silent, our ashes burning and flying away, forgotten in our wounds.
But, the prophetess, in her clairvoyance, says this:
“The White Rose shall come and dispel the darkness.
Fear not, my little children.”
A covenant unto us was given, and we shall see it kept.
As of now, there are only prologues to the story because I feel like revealing information that way.
Please Note:
Cover Photos are not mine, I just did some horrible job of meshing them together.
Also, this story will be updated sporadically, whenever I feel like it.
(Fun fact about this poem: I wrote it during Spanish class because I was bored)
Thank you and try to enjoy this story.
All Rights Reserved
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The world does not know pain. Not yet. The stars hang too peacefully in the sky, the air is too clean, and the people-they breathe too easily. They laugh, they love, they dream. They do not know what true suffering is. Max Morbarius will teach them. He was once a man. Once fragile, once weak, once breakable. But pain reshaped him. They tore him apart. They drowned him in agony. They thought death would claim him. They were wrong. Something ancient whispered to him from the abyss. Something hungry. Something that found his agony... beautiful. It did not offer salvation. It did not grant peace. It tore his soul from his corpse and stitched it into something monstrous. Now, he does not kill for justice. He does not kill for revenge. He kills because it makes the world scream. He moves like a shadow through the night, his presence an infection, a creeping plague of fear. He does not just slaughter his enemies-he peels them apart, nerve by nerve, bone by bone. He drinks their suffering, paints the walls with their entrails, carves their sins into their skulls. Their agony is his masterpiece. Their blood is his baptism. But he is not the worst thing that crawls from the dark. There are others. Things lurking beyond human understanding. Eldritch horrors with endless mouths, gods that demand rivers of suffering, nightmares that fester and grow in the rot of his carnage. And they whisper to him. They watch him carve, rip, and mutilate. They want more. They are waiting for him to unleash his true form, to let go of what little remains of his soul, to become the thing they always knew he could be. The Red King of Ruin. The Harbinger of the Fleshstorm. The Father of Agony. And when he finally lets the madness consume him... The world will not be reduced to ashes. It will drown in an ocean of screaming, writhing, bleeding flesh. Because death is not the end. It is only the beginning.
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