The Creed's Emergence
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MaduroEm andamento6h 12m
Última atualização sáb, fev 11, 2023
Welcome to the Church of Decay, where the walls drip with blood.
Do you seek to embody the horrific scenery you're met with?
The blood, the chaos, the terrors.
Do you seek to join the Church no matter how heart-wrenching it may be?
Even if your soul cries out for help?
Will you answer that cry?
Or will you submit?
Do you believe that you can endure the hardships?
The fear, the agony, the weight of sin?
Do you believe you can face the horror?
The wars, the monstrosities, the VEIL?
. . . .
It all began with an atomic bomb.
Not the Church.
But the life of someone that will change E V E R Y T H I N G .
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Rated SPG All Rights Reserved This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to any other stories are pure coincidence. This is rated spg.., the story contains some gore and adult scenes. Please be open minded. Thank you!! I never thought that some unimaginable things would happen to me. I was a realist, world is never a black and white to me and life is always unfair. But, there are some things that I enjoy being in this cruel world. Our life, our memories, the sadness, the happiness, the tears, the smiles those things make our lives meaningful. But, what can I say..I'm still a living being and my life is also never going to be a black and white.Concluída
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They say madness runs in the blood. If that's true, then I'm already drowning in it. I dream of cats who speak in riddles, of stars that bleed light, of hearts that throb beneath soil and stone like they're trying to escape. Most nights, I wake up with the echo of a heartbeat in my ears-never mine, always someone else's. Louder. Closer. My aunt says it's just the wind. The others in the village say it's something worse. We don't talk about dreams here. We till the earth, we bake our bread, and we keep our heads down. Dreamers don't last long in places like this. And girls like me-girls who see more than they should, who hear what no one else can-they don't get happy endings. They get whispers. Looks. Doors shut a little too hard. So I've learned to pretend. I smile when I'm supposed to, nod when I'm spoken to. I hide my journal beneath the loose floorboard, the one that creaks only if you step just wrong. No one knows what I write there. No one knows that sometimes, in the quiet, I can feel the weight of a thousand hearts pressing against mine. Longing. Ache. Something else I can't name. Until last night, I thought I was still pretending. Then the cat came. She didn't knock, didn't ask. Just sat on the windowsill like she owned the moonlight and said- "You're late, Inimar. The hearts are dying."
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