Post by Azaroth on Apr 29, 2006 10:36:57 GMT -5
[glow=maroon,5,300]Black Sabbath[/glow]
Mute birds, tired of repeating yesterdays terrors, huddle together in the recesses of dark corners. Veils of darkness shroud the blackened trees, which, contorted by some unseen violence, shred their weary leaves, and bend in the mist-filled wind. The cataract of the night forms fully as the world weeps in sorrow, giving it's condolences to pity itself over the vehement evil that conquers without warning. Soon, nothing is evident and recognized in the dead forest but death itself, this haunting martyr of a planet becoming a grave resident of the unseen universe that shamefully bears it's existance. What beautiful cause the Dark Side had for such an amassment of rocks, it was unknown and unjudged, leaving naught but it's abhorrent aura to emerge upward and trace it's territorial marks, wandering aimlessly throughout the land. The once-tranquil forest now lay without honor, ensembles of flowers uselessly bled their magnificence upon the deadened ground below, shriveling as if shedding tears to accent their demise.
It was a wicked world, one that should not be rivaled with any form of malevolence, beyond the shallow classification of 'evil'. Whatever means of which that dared to define the mere agonizing transformation of this planet could never truly find any assimilation of letters to fathom, nor to verbalize the mass destructive trial this bitter planet was forced to undergo. The Sith felt nothing but comfortably numb power emitting off Ziost, the planet of the dead. The normal warmth of the sunrise was twisted in irony, an icy sun with a chilling glow, distorting to the complete antithesis of peace. It was perfect. Just as a revelry should signify something of great authority or importance, the building of a Sith Temple would be a sabbath for the Dark Side, a Black Sabbath.
Frost slowly descended from the moon, weaving inwards throughout the cryptic crowns of trees, desperately attempting to infect the forest's level through the endlessly haunting and boundless canopy. The shadows stretched narrowly across the ground swayed in unity, nothing more than phantom puppets of the moon, portraying the appeal of skeletal hands drowning the Sith in presence. Yet, terror had it's limits, unlike the Dark Side. Adaption to living nightmares came as mandatory for the Sith, so whatever agonizingly evil ghosts of planets to Jedi would pass on as nothing but an ideal throne to those of such stature. His evident body figure rocked gently in a steady beat, the disruptive random waving of the ebony cloak shattering any form of rhythm in his stride. An awkward form of comfort came to the trees, whispering in the form of howling wind, while Dagon was yet passing. His walk was sure, and as this pseudonym of a disguise masked any shred of appearance, it boldened his ideal of becoming nothing more than a mere shadow, one that was closing in on the unfinished Temple.
