Woegothe, the Session Guardian

6 days ago

𝐸𝓃𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝒽'𝓈 𝒞𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓃

𝓞𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓯𝓮𝔀 𝓲𝓷 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓿𝓲𝓬𝓮.

@woeGothic[WG]

I found a town. But not by a map, or by chance. It was by the sound of it. There are places in these worlds that still ring correctly. Little settlements tucked away into forgotten valleys where the bells are cast by local hands, where the market square fills before sunrise, and where children leave flowers at roadside shrines because their grandparents did. These places don't know suspicious. They are where stories are told because they were remembered, not written down. It sat beneath green hills and a castle that had outlived every king who claimed it. Their chimneys breathed like tobacco pipes. The baker opened his sill before dawn. The blacksmith complained about aching knees. Someone would be marrying the miller's daughter soon. Someone else would discover the cave nearby, my cave, should have remained sealed. Every life had already fit into their jigsaw puzzle shape. I watched from the ridgeline until the first church bell rang. I walked downhill. No armies followed me. No cult announced my arrival. Banners do not raise in my name. I smiled at the shepherd. I purchased bread with gold they had never seen before. I asked an old woman for directions she was delighted to give. The corruption never begins with violence. It begins with accommodation. The baker started dreaming of rooms that did not fit inside his home. The shepherd would count an extra sheep at night by mistake, and never find the animal. The children began drawing the castle with another tower that did not yet exist. The maps then changed. No one noticed. The maps are always correct. Then their songs changed. The bard forgot the final verse of his ballad. When he remembered it the following week, every version had ended differently. No one argued. No. Why would they? It was the song they had always known. By the end of the month, my new tower stood against the skyline. Stone weathered by centuries. Vines climb walls older than memory itself. The mason swore he repaired its steps every spring since childhood. His father as well as his grandfather share these memories. The castle had always had seven towers. The records agreed, the paintings agreed, the town agreed. Only those aware and not living such as the ravens refused it. They wouldn't even land on it. I stayed until they stopped refusing. The town flourishes, I am told. Visitors speak fondly of my castle. Especially the seventh tower. Many of them find it difficult to remember why they thought their were six. #horror #butitsalsomylifenow