Welcome to Survival

Deepdale

An old shaman sits atop a tor, an eagle perched nearby, He tosses it scraps of meat. He smiles through his gristle matted beard, bone knit hair stirs in the wind, hollow chimes of trapped souls within each rune etched shard. He feels the world…its pain its fear. Wounds are open. Seeping puss filled, from that which seeps up from below. The wind picks up….he hears words upon its breath….insane mutterings, ribald jests, warcries, song……wisdom. “I hear you all my gods…….I hear you all.”

He takes up his ancient two handed axe, uses it as an aid getting his old frame off the Stoney ground…. So better he can see. The eagle screeches…and leaps into the air……the shaman closes his eyes…and sees with the birds tawny orbs…..from up up high he watches…..the iron doors to the underpits open, spiked gates, trapped tunnels…..brass, steam, iron silver, wheels gears……. Blades. They march…rank upon rank, unfeeling, uncaring, begat of fear and need………”and who will stop them”.

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