In the depths of darkness, where rays dare not penetrate, they walk. It are an Warriors of a Eternal Night, fated with a power to wield darkness. My purpose remains: to defend this world from those who hide in an shadow. Guided by a burning need, we stand as a barrier against the encroaching darkness.

Relics of a Fallen Age

The crumbling structures stand as stark reminders to a bygone era, their weathered stones whispering tales of grandeur and decay. Once majestic palaces now lay ruined, overgrown with lush vegetation, while the echoes of laughter long since faded into the silence.

Forgotten artifacts, tarnished, lie half-buried amidst the rubble, portraying glimpses into a civilization that has perished. A palpable melancholy hangs in the air, a soulful reminder of the impermanence of all things.

Discovered from the depths of time, these relics convey a profound sense of loss and fascination. They serve as a poignant reminder that even the mightiest empires inevitably succumb to the ravages of time.

Medals of Blood on Onyx Shields

Upon the polished obsidian surfaces, where shadows danced and secrets whispered, lay an array of medals. Each one was etched with the visage of a fallen hero, their faces now marred by terrible lines, the result of battles fought and won. The alloy itself bore the weight of countless sacrifices, each wound bleeding crimson onto the dark shields.

An unsettling silence filled the air, as if the very medals themselves held a curse. Rumors circulated among the gathered soldiers, tales of forgotten heroes and battles won at a terrible cost. Each medal told a story of valor and tragedy.

Their heaviness served as a constant reminder, not only of the fallen but also of the ever-present threat that loomed over them all. The obsidian shields themselves seemed to absorb this somber mood, their smooth surfaces like pools of night.

Resounds in Empty Thrones

Within the vast halls of power, echoes persist. The legacy of departed rulers still permeates the air. Deserted thrones stand as silent monuments to the transient nature of dominion . The aroma of conquest still clings to faded tapestries, a haunting reminder of triumphs long since faded .

Though in this silence , a new current begins to awaken . The promise for a transformed future murmurs through the empty halls, a symphony of change waiting to be realized .

Echoes From a Dying World

The air shimmers with the last breaths of this world. Shadows coil long and thin across the landscape, painted in hues of dying embers and fading hope. The wind moans, carrying tales of a forgotten glory, a symphony of anguish played on the strings of reality. Beneath the oppressive sky, remnants of civilization persevere. They search for meaning in these final moments, grasping at fantoms of a past that remains a haunting memory. A chilling silence falls over the land, broken only by the muffled whispers of the dying world.

The Grim Reaper's Harvest

A spectral wind swept through the plains, carrying with it the scent of death. The sun cast long, eerie shadows as she took its way through the silent landscape. Her shears gleamed in the eerie darkness, a macabre reminder of the approaching doom that hung over every soul. Those who remain cowered in fear, unaware of the death's embrace that was upon them.

Legends whisper that He who Collects Souls walks among us, a silent shadow, always watching. Many insist that she reveals herself to those about to pass on.

• If the existence of He who gathers souls is a fact, one thing remains constant: death is a part of life.

We can choose to accept it as a natural part of the cycle but the Grim Reaper's harvest is something we all must face.