A dying sun sets over the rusted streets, calling upon an engorged moon to light the way. The mobs have paved their way in zealous purification, where none have escaped such cleansing fires. Only one witness follows at a safe distance, waiting his chance to scurry further into the city, further towards the source of the plague.

This tale of grim discovery begins with a pale moon and the onset of madness.

The Witness was prepared, hands gripping the knives tightly. There would be no mistakes, not tonight, not when death was so heavily invested in the crumbling city. A single misstep would reveal a dreadful fate, but the Witness was ready. Patience and finesse, nothing more was needed.

A mob of ten crowded the street end, surrounding a simple home with their flaming torches and crazed cries. The screams of the denizens proved advantageous as they were dragged out onto the street and set alight, creating an opportunity for the Witness to quietly move on without attracting the crowd's gaze. It wouldn’t be long now, before they noticed the look in each other’s eyes, the ghoulish expressions on their faces. Wouldn’t be long at all, before they turned their fear upon one another.

Similar sights were revealed as the Witness made his way along the uneven cobblestone, passing by dark buildings made of stone and gilded in iron. Pointed rooftops blocked the sparkling sky, or would’ve had the stars been out tonight. The moon had already arrived, so big its brightness had eclipsed the wondrous glittering, yet the small city remained in an unnatural darkness. Something was at work, something hidden and foreign.

The Witness spared a single moment to gaze upon the radiant moon, calling from his memory the tale of the Dark Dancer. Merely a legend based on the moon, the Dark Dancer adored the attention she received, demanding the spotlight at all times. It’s said that whenever she begins her performance, her stage is lit up so brightly everything around her becomes obscured in shadow, forcing all focus upon her. Nothing but a local legend passed down through the generations to explain why the moon is all you can see some nights. Still, the Witness found it amusing, the mere thoughts enough to barely provide a much needed distraction from the screams and horror splashing about the streets.

As progress was made, human voices became scarce, replaced by gravelly growls and sinister snarls. Tormented creatures haunted the shadows now. Those on the outskirts knew to leave them well enough alone, the ones with mere shreds of their humanity left. Dangerous beasts that saw all as enemies were all who remained now.

Keeping carefully to the sides of buildings, the Witness ventured further towards the heart of the city, the hilltop and the church that rested upon it. Answers would be found there, the Witness knew it. He had seen the early beginnings of disaster in the alleys and filth surrounding it. First in the rodents, then the strays, each turning violent and rabid, transforming into creatures of ill omen. The Witness had seen where it slowly seeped from, the ghastly infection of the mind. It was there that he’d find possible salvation. For himself or the city? Only the Witness was privy to such an answer.

A foul stench had gradually thickened the further the Witness made it along his route. He’d picked out the shortest way to the church, yet it’d meant travelling through some areas likely to be populated, a worry having become fact upon entering the one of the city’s markets.

Fear shook his legs as his approached slowed, the torn flesh and discarded blood staining the once crowded marketplace. Countless bodies of disfiguration, tattered clothes torn apart, beasts now barely resembling man lay shredded and in pieces, piled upon each other as if partaking in some final rite.

A terrible shriek cut through the silence, ending with a heavy, wet crunch. The Witness could only watch as the woman lifted her large hammer back onto her shoulder, turning her head slowly to meet the eyes of her next victim.

Straightening herself, wiping the blood on her gloves off onto her cloak, the woman took a step towards the Witness. The lower half of her face masked by simple fabric, a frayed tricorn keeping the hair out of her eyes, nothing was revealed to the Witness as she narrowed her gaze.

“Dear, oh dear,” her hoarse voice whispered. “What was it? The foul disease? The infectious madness? Oh, it doesn’t matter. It’s time for you to wake up from this nightmare.”

She was quick, practised, the thick slab of iron careening towards his fur-covered head as if it weighed the same as a feather. The impact was heavy, the force crashing into the side of the Witness’ changing face and slamming it to the ground.

Half his face crushed, jagged teeth knocked from his maw, bloodshot eyes rolling and unaware, the Witness could only shiver and splutter, choking on polluted blood he couldn’t spit or swallow. The trauma was temporary however, as the shadow of a reaper loomed ever closer, hammer poised for another blow.

“Just think of this as nothing but a horrible dream.” she muttered, dropping the blunt slab once more for another sickening crunch, and the Witness was no more.

This tale of dreadful revelations continues towards a blood moon and a descending terror.

The Reaper rested her hammer against her shoulder, the melancholy poisoning her thoughts as she turned her gaze about the exterminated vermin. She had accomplished her goal, what she’d been charged with. None had made it through the market. None would reach the church through her. Yet, something was amiss.

How many had she slain? How many had simply been rushing towards the church for salvation? Her eyes turned upon her latest victim. As beastly as the rest of them, knives coated in blood. Perhaps he’d deserved it, such a gruesome end, but how was she to know? She’d simply done as she’d been told, and the command had resulted in fifty or so corpses.

The Reaper stood there committed to her post despite her misgivings, unable to abandon the charge she’d been given. Only once did she turn her attention away from the street, to gaze up at the reddish moon. Her mind wandered for a moment, recalling the strange superstitions of the church she’d so devoted herself to.

The night of a Blood Moon, a prophecy many regarded as a fairy tale. It’s said that upon changing colour, an ancient curse will bloom, affecting all those who partook in the grave sin committed hundreds of years ago. An erosion of time has doomed the present, forcing upon it an era of suffering and terror gifted by an ancient rage. Whatever reason for such rage, whatever the sin, the details have long been lost, or so the desperate few would have their followers believe.

The church bells began a disorganised clanging, and the Reaper’s post was abandoned. An alarm had been raised. The blockade had failed. The church was in danger.

The Reaper rushed through the blood-soaked streets, boots echoing out into the darkness to attract all manner of transformed beasts. They’d acted quickly, the church, sending out their sentries to impede the advance of the contagion. The Reaper was not to know, however, that the church had hearkened a grim warning long in advance. They’d been prepared for such an eventuality, and had taken precautions to ensure their own safety, for their work had yet to be completed.

Howls accompanied the cloaked murderer as she quickly darted down alley after alley, picking the most direct route regardless of the danger. The Reaper’s hammer swung through the bones of several beasts to happen upon her path, none able to slow her travel.

They’d grown more grotesque, specifically designed out of hate and suffering, cursed into machines designed to inflict pain and dread. Evil had poisoned their minds, their bodies, and so all were to be given mercy in death. Such were the thoughts of one as devout as the formidable Reaper, yet even she was not immune to the fear they encouraged. Each howl and shriek shivered through her body as terror, knowing at any moment, any corner she turned, could very well mean the end. Perhaps she was not as prepared as she thought. Perhaps she had regrets or hesitations about giving her life for the foul little church. Perhaps she was right, but the Reaper was not to know the truth behind her pious associates. None would, except the plague to wipe out all plagues.

The climb up the hill was easily accomplished for one so trained, and the entrance to the church came quickly into view. Blood and gore spilled over the steps leading up, bodies strewn about lifeless, something had carved a path so vicious not a single step was taken without wet sloshing. The great heavy doors had been splintered inwards, and in that entryway stood a figure, a man in a torn coat staring at bandaged hands.

The Reaper darted in, rage overpowering any fear she’d once felt. Fellow worshipers, friends, she’d known the people covering those steps, the ones she’d been forced to tread upon. This unknown man was responsible for the deaths, she knew as much, and she would rid the world of such a hateful scourge.

“Ah, vengeance is upon us.” the haggard man muttered.

The Reaper’s hammer swung down as it had so many times this dreadful night, yet it found only stonework crumbling beneath the force of the blow. A powerful impact threw the Reaper tumbling back down the stairs. She wouldn’t get another chance.

“Is this the last of them?” the man muttered as he stood over the sprawled woman.

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She gasped and coughed, desperately trying to draw in air, her spine having been shattered by the impact. She lay there helpless in her agony, eyes wide and desperate as she looked past her killer towards the moon, towards the dark, sprawling figure slowly covering the red disk with its spreading tendrils and terrible claws.

“It’s time to end the nightmare.” he muttered.

The Reaper shut her eyes as the man’s boot swiftly drove down upon her face. A single, brutal blow by one so savage. Murder is best left to the greatest of scourges, after all.

This tale of abhorrent dreams draws towards its end with an eclipsed moon and a fetid secret.

The Scourge kicked off the gore, turning his back on the lifelessness surrounding him. Satisfied the fanatics wouldn’t interfere any further, the church was swiftly entered and searched. Nothing would bar his way to the root of the disease, and the end of the nightmare.

Gazing about at the old furnishings, the heavy wooden pews and ancient stained-glass windows, the Scourge headed towards the back, where the profane altar sat. The incense was lit, the offerings presented, the sacrifices made. Time was dire now.

Those of the upper echelons had known the fanatics would buy them the necessary time with their lives, even if they didn’t know it, and the Scourge had fallen for the bait. Cursing himself for his lack of insight, he tapped his boots along the bloodied ground, waiting for the sound that would let him continue. Soon enough, a hollow tap brought a smile to the haggard man’s lips.

Kicking the sacrifices out of the way, the Scourge knelt down and raised his fist. Exhaling sharply, his knuckles slammed into the stonework, shattering it straight through. Once he was back on his feet, a heavy strike of his boot caved in the trapdoor, revealing a descending set of stairs disappearing into darkness.

The Scourge began his climb down, towards inhuman shrieks and pious chanting. He could taste the blood in the air, the intoxicating stench so very familiar. He spent months surrounded by it after all, bathing in it, consuming it, infusing it. Whatever depraved acts he was forced to endure for it, it was all worth it in the end. Little humanity remained in the Scourge. Little was needed for what must be done.

It called to him, sang to him, begged him. He would obey the pleas of a child in desperate need of reunion. Had his will been compromised? Was he under the influence of someone else? Not even he knew for certain, if his desires were truly his. What did it matter anyway? They would both get something in return for his obedience.

The fanatics had created him, turned him into a beast unlike the others plaguing the streets on this bloody night. He was a sinister creature, designed solely to end the lives of others. Blood was his price, and reward. Power beyond the limits of mortal man, but in exchange he would lose a piece of himself. Little by little he would degrade, until another little experiment was designated as his killer. It was only a matter of time.

The pleading cries sang a story to the Scourge in ways only he could understand. A tale was told of a group of men and women who found an ancient tomb, one buried deep within catacombs long forgotten to the records and memories of humanity. To fight through such madness and horrors, things a sound mind couldn’t possibly fathom. For what purpose would one subject themselves to such sights? Curiosity? Desperation? No, nothing so complex. Simple arrogance was the answer, the arrogance of a mortal attempting speak with beings beyond common comprehension.

They found the rituals, the rites, at the very bottom of those catacombs, locked behind sealed doors to a tomb of an ancient burial. Secrets were learned, ones best left untouched. Ancient languages were deciphered, the texts revealing ways to communicate with beings once revered as gods. Those of a common mind would see them as nothing more than fairy tales, but that group was different. They believed in what they found, it was the reason they had searched for it after all. The ritual was theirs now, and so they committed to communicating with those they could never understand.

Contact was made, and an emissary was lured. The mere sight of the creature drove many into jabbering, crying fools, while others were gifted a different form of insanity. Those few able to retain their minds discovered a new desire burning within their minds. They had seen a great creature beyond their insignificant understandings of power and mortality, and they were left with but one wish: to ascend to such heights themselves. They would dare attempt to enter a pantheon of incomprehensible beings, such were the foolish, arrogant thoughts of man. And they would seek to do so with crude barbarism.

The Scourge reached the bottom of the stairs, heading towards the only door out. The door opened to a dimly lit room, the expansive walls lined with melted candles, where the stench of rotting blood choked the air of any oxygen. The piercing shrieks turned deafening as the Scourge slowly walked towards the large mass of flesh in the centre of the room, the creature pinned down by chains of alien design to ensure no escape was possible.

There it was, the beacon that’d called his name, surrounded by abominations who could only ascend in image alone. They were weak, helpless, and the Scourge took his time dismantling each and every one of them for what they’d done. It was over before long, and only the chains remained. The moment one restraint was ripped free, the Scourge was staggered when a barbed, cruelly crafted morning star pierced his ribcage.

The Scourge growled in anger, following the long chain back to its master, an old woman who, with an elegant twirl, yanked the weapon back out with the added prize of a few ribs. The Scourge snarled viciously, the pain meaning nothing, and advanced all but a step before the morning star’s momentum swung round in a wide arc to dislodge the violent murderer’s jaw.

“Did your master call you here?” she hissed. “Oh, what does it matter? It’s already too late. Our rite of passage has already begun.”

“It is already too late,” the Scourge howled, “for the Dark Dancer has descended to claim what is hers.”

“Are those your words?” the old woman muttered, swinging her weapon around once more to splatter the head of the vile murderer, before turning her gaze upon the bloated mound of flesh oscillating at different intervals. “Or do they come from you, beast?”

Calling her weapon back to her side, she gazed around at all the death with disinterest, such was the mindset of one so egotistic. Then again, perhaps this was the result of laying eyes upon such dreadful entities as she did so long ago, ones that enforced the insignificance of her mortal life.

This tale of everlasting torment comes to a close with a simple wish and a dreadful deed.

The Insignificant wandered over to the fleshy monstrosity, a curious look overtaking her eye. No terror remained in her gaze, the emotion having left her those centuries past. Or perhaps she had merely grown accustomed to what she knew.

“How many times now?” the old woman croaked. “How many cities must fall before you grant me what I desire?”

A shivering voice of monstrous tones filled the room, the sounds capable of driving an ordinary human insane, the same voices that’d plagued the city this last night.

As with the times before, the abhorrent beast simply bided its time, waiting for the opportunity to gain its freedom once more. Bound in place, the beast was helpless, so it screamed and screamed, dragging the helpless masses to serve its cause, or so the Insignificant thought.

“Give me my answers, and you shall have your freedom.”

Perhaps there was truth to what she offered, but the sentient mass had ignored her demands this long. For what purpose? There was no way of knowing how the minds of such ancient creatures operate. It was as if the creature didn’t care about the pain, the torment, or freedom. Such concepts were seemingly foreign to it.

“It matters not,” the Insignificant continued with a sigh, “I will have what I want, whether you help me or not. Time is on my side, that much I have already learned from you.”

She was the last of the tomb prospectors, those that had uncovered the abominations living far beneath the lands. She had fought alongside those with similar desires, but weak resolve. The rest had succumbed to their mortality, but not her. No, she remained alive and well, fighting to reach her goal by any means.

“How much more are you going to suffer before you release your knowledge? Whether given willingly, or taken by force, I will have what is rightfully mine.”

The fleshy mass quivered with every spoken word, yet it would only respond in a garbled language not meant for human ears. Had it chosen to, it could communicate in a way that could be understood, and the Insignificant knew this.

“So many years I’ve spent researching, experimenting, all of it wasted on that failure. I know the key is in there somewhere, in your rotting blood. How many more years before I finally figure it out? Or we can end this foolish game and you can tell me how to ascend!”

A horde of gargled gibbers and whispers filled the spacious room, the sounds morphing together to form the language of humans. Barely intelligible words were uttered, yet it was clear as day for the Insignificant, and only her.

Her body shuddered, her mouth ripping open in hysterical laughter, eyes wide in a manic stare. She collapsed to her knees gripped the sides of her head, tears now streaming down her cheeks, her laughter quickly devolving into maddening shrieks. Despair, emptiness, shock; whatever the creature had uttered, it’d shattered the Insignificant’s entire being. Whatever she’d heard, it’d stripped her of all the arrogance, calm collect and indifference that’d bolstered her mind into its conceited state over the decades, centuries even, of life she’d stolen.

The bulbous pile of undulating flesh shrieked in its native tongue, instilling silence in the Insignificant. She rose to her feet, maddened eyes widening in clarity, as a heavy tremor loosened the dirt from the ceiling, quaking the structure so badly the Insignificant was forced to staggered on the spot.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” she shrieked. “Do you even feel pain? All your screaming, since the moment we found you, it’s all been for her, hasn’t it? You called her here, and she’s only just arrived!”

The Insignificant turned her eyes up, staring as the ceiling began cracking and creaking, dirt and stone tumbling down with every massive impact upon the surface.

She’d lived a long, long life, the Insignificant. She’d watched cities rise and fall, tyrants come and go, she’d listened to the stories told throughout the ages, learned to pay them with little heed. The tales she heard were nothing more than exaggerations of simple events, some she’d personally witnessed herself, yet even for one so old, older still were some legends.

It was the Dark Dancer that came to her mind in those final moments, the story much older than those told in the current age. Her personality remained the same, demanding the spotlight be always on her, that the beauty of her dance must be watched by everyone. There was one, however, that the Dark Dancer desired above all others.

The Watcher of the Deep, the sole guardian of an ancient civilisation so far forgotten none even knew it existed. One man was designated to defend them from evil, and he had done his job well. He was a destroyer, and none could stand on par with him, yet even with all the blood on his hands, the Dark Dancer only ever desired his attention, and she had won it with her very first performance before him.

The two were deeply in love. Many nights were spent in union, while the days were spent separate in yearning for the other’s touch once more. The legends end with the triumph of love and joy, and little more was known of whether they truly ended happily ever after.

As the ceiling above the Insignificant collapsed, the stone and earth falling down upon the two, she looked over to the monstrous child and grinned with maddening insight.

This tale of a mindless pursuit ends with an enraged mother reclaiming her lost child, and a vengeful destroyer descending from the deep above.