The Rokyu, Butcher of Phobos, Flayer of Fiends, is on a Hunt for a stampede of Behemoths, but in order to arrive to the slaughter zone without wasting his energies, he had to travel within the shadow of an demonic steed. Its reins are veins, its bridle is blood, its mane ablaze, by the baneful fires of a hell in its heart.
To the oldest Hunters of the Kingdom of Dorok, riding a Hellish Steed was a rite of passage only attributed to the most fearsome warriors of the Rokyu Brotherhood, a tradition that died out as those that partook in it were reduced to gory trampled pulp, thus outlawed in civilized cities. In the wasteland Frontier of DISMALIA, these practices are preserved by the most diabolically deranged, yet unknowingly, the stone hearted Butcher Bosco has accomplished a ritual that many of his kin have died attempting, without even aiming for the glory of surviving it.
To one such as him, a pariah amongst pariah, this was only a means of improvised traversal, taking advantage of the wrathful speed of the steed, that shall continue its wicked path in the Dismal Lands, while he engages in the butchery of Behemoths below the quarry.
- El Diablo, Player of the Strings of Fate.
The Hellish Horse is one of the many feral mutant beasts of the wastes, empowered by Demonic features, and Bosco travels under its shadow, long distances clutched on its back without being either seen or felt. Now dismounting after reaching the sector where his prey has been sighted. The Huntsman must respect the balance of Beasts, as he admires their freedom. "Leave this pit now, noble steed. It's about to get bloody". The perched up Butcher marks the kill, prowling like a buzzard, beholding the Behemoths plowing below in the quarry. He pulls up the bone carved death whistle and blows, transforming his breath into the harrowing howls of harpies, disturbing the tranquil pack as they stampede as horde. The Butcher is called upon to cull this tide of fiendish flesh. The horizon is set ablaze by the fumes from the fiends, conjuring fire from their bellies, forming a defensive whirlwind of baneful flames. Unbeknownst to the Behemoths, the Butcher is already crawling beneath their bodies, carving them up. Dark reins of black blood veins, the Slayer rides them, pulling their arteries to guide them against each other, collapsing the death spiral. The Bloody Nightmares contemplated the esoteric onslaught as each of the monstrous Behemoths is gored by its kindred, their bodies jerked along as if strung like puppets by a sanguine shade.
Only under the brief glow of the eclipse sun could those witnessing the beast see the gleaming blades, flurrying and dancing amidst the blood, fire and sand. Each striking true, not a motion wasted, throats severed, bones and flesh preserved impeccably. Only a handful is slain rightly, and half the horde is sparred, allowed to flee and mend their self inflicted wounds. Behind stayed the Flayer of Fiends, carving up the carcasses he bled to death without being ever perceived. The night mares agreed, and silently the Butcher Bosco knew to leave succulent offerings to these noble beasts.
The Season of Silence is upon us in this new solar cycle. Sanguinary steeds ardemtly gallop across the miasmic mists rising from the melting ice formed by freezing blizzards Mantling the dismal Frontier with a fiendish fog that obfuscates matter and mind. Time to Hunt.
#dismalia #yearofthehorse