The world lay dying, and its spirits raged against the inevitability; clamoring shades, wailing in anguish. It was a time when one hearkened to madmen at their peril, though in great risk lay potential for great reward.
It was in their befuddled minds that the spirits held sway. Kindred souls they were, those of the dust and those of the flesh, each yearning for freedom perceived in the other. If only they but knew the folly of their desires, for shackles remain shackles, whether forged of mind or matter.
Freedom lay only in great sacrifice, of blood, of sight, of sanity. Cast a plea to the wind, and perhaps receive an answer. Perhaps the command is obeyed. Yet, the abominations brought forth did not wear their flesh easily. They roared and raged, their agony searing, their torment alien. A spirit in the flesh was but walking death, both for itself and any within reach.
For the madmen, no respite. No moment of calm. Such things were illusions, easily pierced by the third eye. The lunatics took satisfaction only in the clarity of that one moment, and a payment in blooded skulls.
