Check Out Vaultwraith’s New Spooky-Ass Record Death Is Proof of Satan’s Power
“That’s it,” you think to yourself as you collapse in a pool of exhaustion on the cold masonry of the keep’s floor. “I cannot go on like this. Damn their eyes, do they never tire?” Three days you had been on the run from the Devilcraft Cult. Three days and nights with nary a wink of sleep, your only rest the few moments when you halted to eat whatever you could find to restore your flagging strength. You pause a moment to breathe in the iron stench of the ancient stone walls, craning your ear to catch any hint of your pursuers. For a spell all is quiet, aside from the pounding of your terrified heart. “Did I truly lose them in the twisting fog of that infernal bog?” you wonder, not daring to hope. Suddenly you hear faint patter on the steps. Slow, measured, yet steadily drawing closer, the heavy footfalls climb the twisted stair that led you to this accursed tunnel. You attempt to pry yourself from the biting cobble, but your treacherous legs falter again beneath you. And still the steps approach. Turning, you steel yourself for the evil that approaches. The Vaultwraith enters the keep, its eyes aflame with the powers of death and hell.
“They did it, the bastards truly did it. They tore open the Infernal Realms and summoned the beast itself.” You knew they would, deep down. You saw the bloodletting in the village that night. You saw the Crimson Mist as they defiled the sacred graves and turned the stones that should not have been disturbed. You tried to warn the fools. “Cast out these devils!” you had shouted to the villagers, but the cacophony of delight that had issued forth from the simpletons had drowned out your plaintive cries with devilish growls. They forgot the treaty. They forgot that the old ways, the ways of King Diamond and he who sat upon the Darkthrone, were never to be repeated, that those riffs and infernal melodies were forbidden. You shouted, but the High Priestess of the Wolf Coven snarled and sneered louder, a rapturous rhythm of galloping hooves and sensual moans drowning out the words of you, the lone faithful one.
So you fled and prayed that a Mercyful Fate would find you before these new devils did. You did not know for which you asked.
The Vaultwraith strides closer, its taut, black flesh gleaming in the dappled moonlight that pours through the vaulted windows like the daggers gleaming in its blazing eyes. As it approaches, you hear exuberant cries of exultation from the long-abandoned church within the keep. “The choirs of the damn sing forth for their master,” you spit, the acrid taste of disgust bitter on your tongue. Suddenly, as the infernal choirs arc beneath you, you find the power of the riff within and rise up one last time to face your fate. “I shall not die sniveling, you accursed wyrm!” you cry as you fling your last bit of holy water at the demon’s face! As the Vaultwraith’s flesh sizzles, it seizes you in its baleful gaze, its blazing eyes cutting through the steam with a paralyzing malice. Your muscles tighten, your throat swells, and the last shred of your sanity burns away as a devilish grin carves itself across your spasming form.
After what feels an eternity of both heavy metal ecstasy and torment, your pitiful mortal coil drifts away like so much dust on the castle’s steps. Your end was not kind, but it was pleasurable indeed.
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