neverending march through eternal night. five kings must die this infinite day.
moments ago a cacophonous crescendo of clashing steel. the distant beating of discordant drums joined by a sudden swelling of jubilant, furious fanfares. thundering, droning sadness descending onto the battlefield. triumphant devastation glorious and vile! flashes of blinding light wreathed in black shadows of nothingness.
heavens tearing apart, earth breaking open, and now she stands before you.
complete silence, all motion suspended, suns standing still.
command me, saint and princess, for i am your knight!
a voice most terrible and terrific, a whisper of song, incomplete yet perfect, frightening fragments of immaculate innocence:
i am at littlemore. your holy whore. a wormhost, buried face down.
rescue me...
the world you see is but a small fraction of all that is and so you know that this barrow is no hill of angels. yet you will sift through the dust of millennia and turn towards the blackest alchemy, towards sorcery of an ancient magic, and towards that unwholesome and unholy craft, renounced and unremembered:
necromancy.
for what more are spells of resurrection than the attempt to recall an elusive, divine love in pursuit of a truth that has not yet come to pass?
unearth her frame and turn her face to the light so that the firmament may meet her gaze! bestow oils of myrrh on her defiled, delicate form and clothe her in silk, brocade, and velvet, dyed in deep reds and bright blues, and lined with silver threads and she will rise as a goddess, victorious to rule not just olympia but the world to come!