Yrhaedan Torr The servant enters the door of odours well known, the stone cold that resounds with rattling bones that scrape on the ground that passes beneath his feet.

He sees the man that crawls under the burden of duty unasked and miswrought to no avail, the purpose coveted buried under the thick layers of deceit.

The servant touches the ground that opens under the gentle pressure of white gloves, whispers dust of crushed bones, the marrow of the life gone following the vestiges below in the deep.

He feels the brushing rock that yields and reveals alcoves hidden for thousand years, a smother of smoothness that belies the caressing fingers of waters that passed and with them the dreaded life.

The dust is dry and slides down the ravines that twist and turn into narrow throats of empty lungs of petrified bones and stone that comes alive in molten fires.

The currents blow in the servant's mind, murmurs of furnaces that glow below, the dust swirls and thrusts in blows of prying licks that emerge above.

The pull is strong and the rays converge, unerring in their choice of path between the smoldering flames of torches, subdued in their reverence of earth and stone and bones that are the world that endures.

They come creeping slow and unseen only felt as jolts that pry inside the chest and seek the knots and ropes that bind the flesh and bone in the slavery of fickle life.

The dust swirls and wanders further and strokes the bones that rise and skulls with empty eyeholes set atop the mounds and mass of lives past that are denied the embrace they seek.

The dust settles and scatters among the flickering images of many touches lost in the mind that shatters and the darkness falls, to conjoin with the brothers in flesh and devotion that are no more.

The servant awakens and sees the hunched man of ignorance of his domain undeserved that stretches deep into the stones unexplored, ravaged and torn.

He greets the man that buries the bones, and remains and scribes the will of the Lord Beyond and sits and lies in the cold embrace of the stones that betray many wounds deep in the hearts of their fathers below.

He knows.

Yrhaedan Torr He walks and dons the gloves of white that flex and bend in motion as he takes the wand-like knife and sharpens with the stone that oozes out a sound that scatters the spiders small in the dry hall; the corpse that lies motionless on the table of scarred stone that remembers servants of past gnawing as the misled gashes and carvings into bones and the marrow within that unfolds the symmetrical structures and images of shapes that the mind conjures from ancient past.

He cuts deeper into the flesh that vapours and soils the air hopelessly rearing against the onslaught of malefic organisms acrawl in the chaos of blithely unsentient life he delves into and taps and saps and observes the times destroyed with half-closed eyes.

He screams of anguish and sees the wall that crumbles as the maggots of stone delve their soft casks relentlessly and sweatless, glittering with fluids that drip into the pores of the tormented stone that moans and cries for relief that never comes.

He backs and crouches and feels the cold stone unmoving that one of the white gloves touches and caresses with force gaining and thirsty, the fluids not undry that sheathe and colour in hues of bile and dried blood and draws smears where his will traces the unseen veins the stone hides.

The click and rustle of a spider's leg imprisoned in the nightgrass hair swaying white propels the glove of smears to strike at the head and splurt and press gently to feel the squirm and the silencing of the moves uncouth while the humming of songs unthought drips from above in unsteady trickles of alien voices; the glove pursues the line that forms the profile of the head fatigued and wanders aside to paint the canvas of skin with shades of dark while the minuscules of the legs dislodged and thorn-like scatter in the hand's wake.

The tears colour whose pearlness is shorn by one brush violent as the echoes of clamour and strikes long endured meander through the tunnels in stone and with them the word and tunes high and pitched and shrills that fade and die at the ears where the smears blossom as the glove is dipped anew into the ravaged bosom that lies in dreams unfinished of peace eternal and transferred to conceal the uncanny existences and their manifestation from the servant's mind that covers the ears.

The tears rain in strange angles that are the drops that fall and slide from above of water that carries the life and shape forms under one of the gloves once white but no more of fingers twisted in a vain attempt to crush the shape that strokes the hair at the back of the palms and seeks the way in the labyrinthine space covered by the sated leather astir.

And the chores and songs that come are of those that are no more and peace denied of which they chant and utter inarticulate words that never touch the brain which runs and bridges the holes ayawn where embryos of babies unborn cry in eerie liquids thick with the promise of defeat once born.

The corpse jerks that has come vivid in hues of its twisted innards in futile search to dry the bones and the flesh that adorns the walls grows cold and the servant smiles as the stone devours the promise that lacks substance that sinks into the unremembered past from which they come in hordes to fight over the bits and pieces and tear their meager and starved bodies and teem in orgies of the hated life that floods and scorns the anathema while the skull bared watches in stupour into its eyeholes where darkness reigns and finds the soaked shreds that dance macabrely in the wet winds that carry vice and laughter on their fragrant wings.

The hands unclad and barren with long nails and clench and claw rise in pleas unsaid to meet the dome that embraces the mounds dotted with tracks in dust of the present that never halt in motion and perpetuity where no fulfillment comes and the tower of wards recurrent stands in gloom of churning fungi that breed themselves into the recesses that daunt the gazes down where forms unknown contest for bones and the marrow within that forms the shapely structures of beauty unrecognised.

Whispers and words of the mouths around and the sparks of flames that make the fungus burn and smoke in depravities and cloud the gate that opens and beyond the eyes abulge and tatters of grey that unfold to puzzle the void by their complexity and glittering that reaches into the ravines of the circumaudient souls that rush ascurry and whimper and bow in the rhythm of the glitterful rustling and are no more and the scentful smoke whirls away into obscurity of a mind unminding and the curtain falls.