Dhiksha

It was a strange and unfortunate set of events that led to Desmor Blest's return from the grave. It all began a week prior to his execution and secret revival, on a mostly normal day free of ominous omens like ravens and dark clouds. Des was at the mercenary camp's training grounds, beating the shit out of three people at once, when the first ominous omen showed up. It was a Carver, one of those masked sorcerers who worked for the Guild and, as it turned out, Desmor's newest client. The job was simple, or as simple as it could be when given by an organisation of elite sorcerers who killed people by mutilating carvings. One of their members

The Fort was on a mountain. The mountain was on a lake. The water froze at night And burned at daybreak. A woman stood atop the fort. She held a bloody blade. It was as tall and sharp as she And made of light and shade. Rains and reigns passed away. The fort and woman still staid. Upon the mountain upon the lake Solemn things did not fade.

Merovan stood still and watched. That was his job, wasn’t it? For years and years he had stood there, guarding the Crypt. The Lord king had given him this job and by the Gods, he would do it. Yes, he followed his orders. No matter the weather or time of day, Merovan would be standing there, doing his job. Nobody would enter the crypt. Not on his watch. But no matter how obedient and dutiful one was, it was inevitable that once in a while, especially when one had a lot of time to think, one would question the purpose of one’s job. Merovan had to admit that there were some lonely evenings during which he wished he could leave this d

A  young lord at the doorstep. He was drenched and bleeding. The castle silent slept. Outside the night was weeping. The young lord knocked thrice. The castle did awaken. At the windows were few eyes. The door swung open. The young lord stepped within. A young lady stood to greet. She screamed and tried to hide. She fell dead at his feet. A young lord murdered them all. Through each he drove his knife. The women of the castle did fall. Their lords had killed his wife.

There was once a very pretty girl. Her hair was dark as coal. Her eyes were blue as a spring sky. She was nineteen years old. She had with her a flowerpot. There wasn't a pot that was prettier. The girl envied the earthen pot. The pot was prettier than her. All who came adored the pot. They ignored the pretty young girl. The pot was empty and useless. But it was loved by the world. The girl wanted to break the pot. She wanted the pot to be gone. But the girl never did the deed. The pot was so pretty to look upon. And so the girl and the pot lived. Many came to admire the latter. The pot one day slipped off its shelf. It bro

War In a bare valley, a battle wages on. Blood has spilled from dusk to dawn. Two figures watch from a far, lone rock. One admires and the other mocks. The first one, clad in golden armour, Is the fair and bright form of Honour. The second, with long, loose hair, Is the dark, cloaked figure of Despair. The darker watches with heavy sighs While the brighter watches with gleaming eyes. "I see courage, will and integrity, Tell me, friend, what do you see?" With a smirk and a frown, Despair turns, Watching the men and the earth burn. "I see poison, I see death. I see my name in every breath." ---