Chapter Text
There are legends out there.
Legends as old as time itself.
Legends that spin tales of two foreboding figures.
Legends that warn the masses of the wings of the crow which bring imminent death to those that are lucky to witness their iridescent strides.
Legends that warn the masses of the calls of the hog which have the power to summon oceans of bright crimson blood at their beckoning cries.
Legends that warn the masses of two spirits known only as the Angel of Death and the Blood God.
Legends as old as time itself.
No one knows where or when they came from.
Some tell tells of ebony wings flapping over Mt. Vesuvius with such force that it brought forth eruptions of ash and obsidian to perish a thriving civilization. Some tell tales of an earth shattering cry tolling the demise of hundreds and thousands of souls at the Battle of Stalingrad.
Feathers of the night have been said to decorate the hoof-printed ridden soil of the Edo period, and it’s been said that emeralds littered the ashes of the Library of Alexandria.
Sightings of green robes and the crown of a king have been reported aboard Queen Anne’s Revenge, sightings of a blood red cloak and talons of a demon have been reported strolling around London’s old White Chapel district.
BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!
People cried.
SOULS FOR THE ANGEL OF DEATH!
People cheered.
SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!
People’s chants rung and bellowed for thousands of years in hundreds of languages and hundreds of positions of the sun and moon and the stars.
There was a woman dressed in the night sky who was said to have been so beautiful just a glimpse unto her pitch dark gaze.
Nowadays, those chants have dissipated into mere whispers, once terrifying stories have turned into mere legends, and once great fear has shrivelled into mere fascination and conspiracy.
But there are some who still say they see those crows' wings alongside the crown of a long fallen king from time to time.
But legends remain legends for a reason, speculating on the past has never ended well has it?