Ichor

In the desolate halls of the ruins, where life has long been forgotten and the air is thick with the stench of decay, an ancient and forgotten power stirs. These shattered remnants of a once-great civilization harbor secrets too profound for the light of day, their crumbling walls murmuring a revelation of inevitable decline, etched with the bitterness of countless ages. Amidst the wreckage stands a sculpture, its form both haunting and majestic—a testament to the abyss and a harbinger of all that was lost. It looms in silence, its presence commanding, as though the very ruins themselves bow before its will. It stands, drenched in ichor, a relic of an age long gone—unbound heirs to the void.

Time, it seems, has abandoned this place, yet the ichor—dark, viscous, and relentless—continues to drip from the statue, as if the very blood of the earth pulses through its veins. Once, this sculpture was a symbol of immense power, a deity revered by the civilization that created it. Now, it serves as a mute witness to their ruin. The ichor staining its surface is no mere fluid; it is the last vestige of an ancient and forbidden ritual, a pact made in desperate hopes of saving a society doomed to an inescapable fate. The ichor is both the embodiment of their downfall and the binding force that ties these ruins to the spirit of long-forgotten gods—echoes of war and plague, ravaging blood pasturage.

Legends speak of those who dared to approach the statue, only to be consumed by visions of unimaginable horrors—glimpses into the forsaken future the people once sought to avoid. Their screams, it is said, reverberate through the air, unheard by the unmoving stone that surrounds them. Yet, despite its malevolent nature, the ichor beckons the living, offering power, forbidden knowledge, and madness in equal measure. Only those who are brave—or perhaps foolish—enough to partake in its dark flow may claim to understand the truths of the past. But at what cost? It is said that with each drop consumed, one descends further into the abyss, as the ichor gradually erodes not only the body, but the very soul itself. A road paved with torment, where infidels and plastered saints worship their own decay.

And what of those who lead us today, those who command the fate of nations from their ivory towers? They, too, play their hand with power, offering empty promises of salvation, as they drown us in the same ichor of greed and ambition that doomed the ancients. In their pursuit of progress, they craft our downfall with the same detached coldness, blind to the inevitable ruin that follows unchecked pursuit. We, too, are being led by hollow figures, intoxicated by visions of glory while the foundations of our world crumble beneath us. The ichor of their making seeps into our very lives, promising comfort while it poisons our hearts and minds, all in the name of endless progress and selfless acts that were never meant to save us.

Deep within the heart of the ruins, beneath the roots of ancient trees and the bones of forgotten kings, the echoes of the civilization’s fall still resonate. The ichor, though silent in appearance, is ever-present—a ticking clock that awaits the next soul bold enough to awaken it. The ruins are not empty; they are alive, imbued with a cursed pulse, waiting for the one who dares to cross their threshold once more. The path of the reconcile beckons, but it is one fraught with pain, hatred, and regret. Will we, too, one day become nothing more than forgotten echoes, victims of the same cyclical destruction we choose to ignore? Or will we raise ourselves from the dust, like the land itself, seeking yet another chance?