Valar Morgulis

Graveyard

Hear the whispers among the graves, the hisses of voices long dead, the mourning of those all too alive, the cries of a widow in the funeral parlour.

Cloudy cobwebs crossing the sky, thrumming with the rhythm of the wind, spiders scuttling like broken birds through their swaying strands, thick enough to trap the bats that flit through the cold grave air.

The crackle of the dead yew trees as they bend down to touch the corpse candles that flicker and dance mounfully between the tombstones, the sigh of the november wind through their bony branches, the hoot of an owl.

Moss whispering over the slabs, slowly wearing the names away, for all are nameless in the kingdom of death. The soft, damp, clinging touch of the dew wet grass as unwelcome mourners come to pay unwilling respects to the uncaring dead.

Night now, cold mist winding it's way between the tombs, forming pathways where will o' the wisps shimmer and shine their cold, dead light. The moon sailing high above through tempest waves of cloud, lighting all, illuminating nothing.

Taste the mist, the faint taste of earth and the grave, as if one was dead and buried even while standing among the tombs. The whispering, translucent reminder of what all must face.

Fog clinging to the stones, the wispy hands of those long gone reaching up hopelessly to the unseeing moon, trailing clammy fingers over the long stems of grass, leaving snail-trails of dew. Wind blowing the long-lost down, dispersing the mist and whetting the appetite of the undug ground.

Valar Morgulis

Skull Bearer.

Valar Morgulis

Graveyard

Hear the whispers among the graves, the hisses of voices long dead, the mourning of those all too alive, the cries of a widow in the funeral parlour.

Cloudy cobwebs crossing the sky, thrumming with the rhythm of the wind, spiders scuttling like broken birds through their swaying strands, thick enough to trap the bats that flit through the cold grave air.

The crackle of the dead yew trees as they bend down to touch the corpse candles that flicker and dance mounfully between the tombstones, the sigh of the november wind through their bony branches, the hoot of an owl.

Moss whispering over the slabs, slowly wearing the names away, for all are nameless in the kingdom of death. The soft, damp, clinging touch of the dew wet grass as unwelcome mourners come to pay unwilling respects to the uncaring dead.

Night now, cold mist winding it's way between the tombs, forming pathways where will o' the wisps shimmer and shine their cold, dead light. The moon sailing high above through tempest waves of cloud, lighting all, illuminating nothing.

Taste the mist, the faint taste of earth and the grave, as if one was dead and buried even while standing among the tombs. The whispering, translucent reminder of what all must face.

Fog clinging to the stones, the wispy hands of those long gone reaching up hopelessly to the unseeing moon, trailing clammy fingers over the long stems of grass, leaving snail-trails of dew. Wind blowing the long-lost down, dispersing the mist and whetting the appetite of the undug ground.

Valar Morgulis

Skull Bearer.