Post by Sabre on Nov 24, 2005 15:47:43 GMT
The fire is gone, the cold has passed,
The tombs of old are secretly massed.
The fruit is dead, the life is lost,
The lands of old lay covered in frost.
The tombs of old are secretly massed.
The fruit is dead, the life is lost,
The lands of old lay covered in frost.
“Hello!” The old man cried through the venerable warehouse. The air was cold, limply swaying past his frostbitten ears. The thousands of cargo crates were stacked about the room, creating a misshapen maze. “I could of sworn I heard a noise,” he said, moving his torch around the pitch black area in front of him. “Here’s to 40 years of being a caretaker,” he said sarcastically as he turned to head back the way he came. Instead of finding the channel between crates he had been expecting, he turned straight into the figure of a tall man, hidden beneath a blanket of shadow. “Who are…” his cries were heard for miles around, his body was found mutilated the next day.
