A lone figure stands, his cape billowing and tugged by the relentless wind. Lightning streaks across the dark form of clouds pregnant with black rain. The barrenness of the landscape is broken by shadows of stunted willows with limbs dessicated into stark twisted agonies. Beyond, the horizon breaks into black spires, soaring above these spires is a maelstrom, below a Castle which frame the billowing figure, and a cauldron at its side.
The figure raises its arms its fingers tapering into black pin needles of death. The ground begins to quake with a power wretching the barreness into submission. Fissures of steam and hellfire break and sear the landscape into contorted veins, riddled and twisted.
It is now the time
of birth where Archons a race so foul and black of spirit relentlessly
emerge from the depths of hell to stalk and seek and profit at expense
of all that is disgustingly good and generally annoying.
The figure's cackle
of laughter echoes throughout as he the great DemiGod Nostromo releases
his brood to walk and proliferate amongst men. Be it known that these
are the fabled Archons, Minions of Nostromo!
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