The city sat before us, spreading slowly, like a stain across the once-wild river valley. Night-black, billowing storm clouds erupt from temples erected in the name of industry.
Black snow falls.
The city grows, a cancer, an infection, a sore. The city grows, insatiable, devouring the country around it. The city grows.
Black snow falls, heavy. The world, soot-stained and corrupted.
Black snow falls, and together we ride to war.
Together, we ride to victory!
Written for yet another of Terry Whidborne’s Sunday Sketches. I’m building a dark little fantasy world around them, apparently…see The Queen of the Wild Hunt and Krislan’s Fine Meats for the other stories so far set in this world…