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The Cult Of Nocturn
Blackened beads on strings beat a raw rapid rhythm against the breast. Curled, crooked hands like claws clasp once holy instruments. Soiled frocks now burned charred bone black. Withered limbs that had energy and vigor are desiccated husks. The body drawn in upon itself, tainted and in the throws of corruption.
The unholy hour is upon us and the moon above peeks down into the mine shaft opening. The hellish clergy gathers and raises the frauds symbol high. Casting the false gods grace deep down into the mines pit.
One by one they shake hands and depart into the depths. Each with a specific goal or agenda in mind they look to corrupt the ground around them. All former priests, all once men of honour and just virtue.
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