Wednesday, 6 February 2019

The arrival of The Thin Priests


The following is a concept for my upcoming game Blackmace.

Our lady of perpetual sickness, the matron of buboes, the queen of filth. Her rusted scythe carved the Pit where she resides with her Broken Horde. Worshipped by the Fetid Gorgers, so named for their proclivity to devour diseased flesh in wretched festivals. Her Flayed Knights, stinking of corpse grease, emerge from swamp ichor, screaming into unlife, hunting warm bodies to glut on the scarlet wine of their meat vessels. These are but frontline soldiers of her eternal war on the living - a war she will inevitably win through the atrophy of time.

Disease is her purview. Cities fall and civilisations crumble under the spread of rot. The Fetid Gorgers crow mockingly as the serfs are instructed, with the din of a tin bell, to bring out their dead. Ravens pick at bloody sinew.

 The Thin Priests arrive, swinging pink clouded incense on creaking chains, their faces hidden by pallid masks. Suddenly blades gleam in flickering torchlight, a gorger head rolls into the gutter. The Thin Priests don't speak - rapid taps on their breastplates signal their next move. Tok tok tok. The ravens launch into the night. Gorgers disperse, finding black nooks in which to crawl spiderlike, their crooked speech becoming rasping whispers.

Dawn arrives with the hymn of the thrush. The Thin Priests have long since moved on.

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