Hooded humans preceded the undead horde chanting in overlapping unison.. One can feel them coming, the first sound creeping far out in front before even visibility breaks the horizon . Rumbling calls to a swarms of locusts devouring crops. all who behold this spectacle keep their eyes transfixed. Closing them, even for a moment, flooded the mind with a crippling thrum of ravenous ceaseless mouths . An impenetrable veil of darkness in flight descending and consuming remorselessly all in its path.
Creaking and deep groaning overpowered the subtle rattling of chains and the clinking of armor. Pervasive walls of sound never ceasing. Inescapable and heartless, like the piercing cold that spreads out in front of an inexorable glacier.
You feel it deep down in the pit of your stomach,
crushing and rendering inconsequential everything in its path.
The sounds were from a dream a nightmare you can’t wake up from, and they complemented the deep bass chanting of the human men exquisitely. Upon becoming enamored by the spell-like quality of it all, one forgets their earthly worries and struggles, if only for a mind-numbing evening.
Indistinct in the heavy incense, slow movement enhancing effect each figure is captivating in its own right. Grotesque sculptures forged from the bones of every creature, from the living to the long extinct. Dormouse skeletons scamper about, cobwebs clinging to delicate brittle ribs, rapiers and belts bouncing like chimes. They complimented and contrasted sharply among colossal monstrosities formed from thick femurs and crowned with heavy prehistoric skulls.
Shadow cling to twisted, shining horns and gnarled, jagged teeth. These tireless wretched creatures, crafted from the remnants of ancient giant lizards and mythological beasts, evoke the eternal nature and inevitability of certain death.
The frozen skeletal grins of so many exposed teeth cruelly mocked living smiles, while vacant, hollow eyeless sockets bore down upon the souls of the slack-jawed and helpless.
Thick incense billows like ghostly tendrils, emanating a growing and intoxicating shroud. The reverent, deep reverberating chant grows louder, a cadenced incantation of somber, evocative fantasy.
Layers of mystical depth, coiling around—a spellbinding dirge that seeps into marrow. Felt as pure, frozen, primal fear, vibrating and resonating throughout... Air stolen from lungs, replaced by an inevitable longing and an uncontrollable pull to shuffle along and sway.
Voices rose, trembling and uncertain, merging with the throng in a darkly captivating celebration, enthralled by the unfathomable. Not many knew the ancient spell-like songs, but twice as many tried to sing and hum along, their wills surrendered, entrapped in an insatiable vortex. Dragged into the depths of the procession.
The entire effect permeated all. A ubiquitous hypnotic display of decay and artistry, an unspoken reminder of the unseen. No one could form the questions about what forces were animating this skeletal orchestra.
Robes and wrappings intentionally concealed flashes of weapons and sinister implements. What was left to appear harmless—like a tiny dormouse or an empty, fleshless hand—added to the intentionally reassuring yet engulfing sense of unease. Despite the sunlight inevitable on some days, the procession exuded an aura of the darkest, most moonless night, drawing all who saw it into a dreadful, trance-like ambiance.
Hooded robes, some pristine while others no more than sackcloth burial wrappings riddled with myriad holes, flapped and swayed. The cloying smoke intensified the dreadful fog-like effect. Tiny torches, carefully proffered by the most diminutive, flickered weakly like the dying breaths of ancient spirits, casting an ethereal glow. Their faint, orange-ish light perfectly complemented the reds of the roses, flowers and gems, accenting the details they wanted the eye to be drawn to . Such subtle precision and intentionality. Profane undeniable splendor Blood-red petals, ribbons, and highly polished, oily-looking rubies adorned their sumptuous armor, glinting ominously against the spectral white of the long dead. Every decoration and position was meticulously chosen to create a visual contrast that was both hauntingly beautiful and profoundly terrifying. Important figures had torchlights in their rib cages and torsos where a heart may once have been. The ensuing play of light and shadow, coupled with the macabre elegance of their exquisite flamboyant attire, transformed the scene into a nightmarish tableau.
Undeniable beauty, craftsmanship, and horror interlacing in a scarring, value-disintegrating, magnetic embrace.
For you see, the shambling haunt of this procession was not merely a parade but a traveling theater troupe, a non-stop performance replete with everything from huge bass drums to tiny handheld affairs.
There was constant fire breathing and dangerous juggling. Horns ringing out in a beckoning cry, accompanied at times by simple string instruments. The theatricality and stage magic were designed to be beyond creepy and mesmerizing, ensnaring the unblinking eyes and stupefied minds of all who chanced to behold. They performed marionette-like fable plays that shifted into song, dance, and choreographed fighting, building to a grand crescendo that hammered home the futility of resisting them.
Announcing their intended set list and schedules were their human companions, medieval grave diggers and partitioners, willingly serving as the heralds of the horde. Some with great horns fashioned into megaphones. Flanked by those that swung incense censers, releasing plumes that mingled with the slow dust, enhancing the otherworldly aura. Together their steps produced a thunderous rhythm, an intentional comforting homage to mimic the last of life’s heartbeat.
Unassumingly stirring up a fine sediment that never seemed to settle as they pushed, dragged, and pulled everything needed for their grand show. The Jingoes wheeled their giant covered cages, chains, and ropes over many a shoulder as they leaned in. A long, majestic procession ordered to never appear mundane.
They had amassed the most magnificent display of bones, gathered over countless centuries and now on full display. After watching them bleach in the sun and allowing ants to remove the remaining flesh, they applied a clear lacquer of their own design, creating these mighty skeletal constructs. Alarmingly many of the most fearsome were motionless for long periods before erupting into jerky, sometimes blurry and erratic movement.
The fiery flourishes, timed to the beating of huge drums, the banners, the staged violence and its chanted message—all worked together as planned and seamlessly. Nothing else in all the lands created such a spectacle . Inescapable dark, powerful coalesced in grandeur.
Villagers came from near and far, gathering outside and watching. As the procession moved forward like an uninvited parade, The watchers were gladly offered tickets to attend the show, regardless of how much coin they had or had not. There was a seat available for everything man , beast or unknown.
Inside cages, resting peacefully, concealed from the eyes of those they crushed past, were enormous primordial gods. Sky, a magnificent blue dragon-like creature with a long, slender neck and a head covered in frills, spikes, and horns, lay nestled on a bed of goose-down pillows. Her water bowl, designed with a large base tapering upward, prevented spills as the cage rolled along. Nearby, trailing slightly behind, was her lifelong companion, Earth, a giant six-legged behemoth with two spines forming a Y-shape from her head down to heavily armored tails. This splendid, original beast possessed the head of a giant lion with fangs, and its body was covered in thick, gold and green dragon-like scales. The deepest greens faded into a lime color before transitioning to a metallic gold, with scales speckled in a sparkling effect. Adorned in magnificent armor, this accidental and bizarre creature moved as comfortably as possible within her enormous confinement.
Earth also had a water bowl and food, of course, with less need for so many pillows. She tended to curl up and rest on her own bulk. In her confines hung the tusks of some unknown creature. These were sometimes worn behind both sides on the neck, jutting out in front to provide additional damage and sorely needed protection. Many believed these tusks were part of her body due to how deep down around the shoulders and neck they tended to ride. Those who helped put them on were reluctant to spread the truth.
Now, this magnificent beast catnapped, occasionally licking at huge, fault-like feet—a mixture of claws and scales with horned lateral protrusions. With six feet, it's a lot to keep up with. Caregivers were honored to attend to and worship this delightful creature. Much of Earth’s day was spent being dressed and armored. Sky lavished her resplendently, helping with very long eyelashes and beautiful makeup. Huge, darting, solid black pupils occasionally flickered, turning into a golden hue with layers of slits and coverings like those of a cat's eyes.
The sky continued to darken, clouds gathered from nowhere casting wicked shadows that seemed to shift and writhe in the dying light. The sparse torch glow highlighted the scenes brilliantly.
Steve had spent his day as usual, toiling in the turnip fields, the sun beating down relentlessly on his strong but skinny back. He was just about ready to head home when his buddy, Greg, came rushing over, eyes wide with contagious fear and excitement.
“Steve, Steve! You’ve got to see this!” Greg grabbed him by the sleeves, his moppish bowl cut swaying over his well-formed eyebrows. His somewhat gentle, kind, and energetic voice carried humorously. He grabbed him again, more firmly this time, nearly dragging him down the dusty street.
“Dang, Greg, what is it?” Steve asked, trying to keep up. “What’s so all-important?”
“You won’t believe it until you see it. Trust me!” Greg replied, a twitchy grin spreading across his handsome young face.
As they rounded the taverns’ corner, the spectacle came into view. Waboom! The procession was unlike anything Steve or Greg had ever seen. The chanting grew louder, resonating through the bones of everyone watching, filling the crude streets with arousal, confusion, and mystery. Their hamlet had disappeared in many ways, replaced by a blurry, confusing mirage of bones and fire. Steve felt as though he could hardly breathe as the forms of his long-dead relatives shuffled past to the music.
In this ordinary village, the destitute townsfolk had all gathered to witness this unforgettable morbid display. Wordlessly summoned like so many moths to a flame. Among them was Old Martha, a sweet, frail woman whose health had been declining for years. She stood reluctantly at the edge of the growing crowd, clutching her chest as raised and wheeled platform drew nearer. Her heart pounded erratically, the rhythmic chanting resonating through her small, frail bones. The sight of the skeleton warriors—some humanoid, others monstrous with multiple limbs and horns, filled her with a tenacious fear she just couldn’t shake. One looked so much like her missing husband that she gasped, her hand going to her tired mouth. It had an exact match of his crooked, broken teeth. Even the one gold tooth they had so painstakingly saved up to buy him was still exactly where they put it. She felt disturbed and vaguely betrayed, sick, and lightheaded. She ****** in air as deeply as her small, shaking frame would allow.
As the death cult creeped its way slowly passed, a massive bone dragon with extra-large wings arrested her ******. It had what must have been some type of leader holding its useless chains, his huge thorax alight with flames from within. He held lightly onto leaders attached to a spiked collar around the smoldering dragon's vertebrae. It was intentionally hulking and utterly terrifying, adorned with a twisted, multi-horned, demonic-looking skull. The humanoid was dwarfed in the shadow of the dragon towering above.
When the Jingo Captain did come into full view, it seemed to stare directly with his eyeless sockets into the very soul of poor, dear, religious Martha. It appeared that he may also lift his arm to point directly at her. The vision, encompassing enormity; the profound horror of the scene was just too much for Granny Martha. She gasped, her eyes rolling back wide and white. Helplessly, Martha collapsed to the ***** ground, clutching at her heart. Some villagers including her cherished Steve and his well meaning friend Greg eventually gathered at her side, but it was too late for the lecherous old wash-woman. The heat and the shock had been too much.
Word of her death and loss of her “services” spread quickly, and by the time the Jingoes reached the next village, a group of religious zealots had gathered. Their faith was their armor, and they were determined to rebuke what they saw as an abomination. Clad in simple robes, they brandished holy symbols, chanting fervently as they drew symbols on the ground with salt and colored chalk. They attempted to create a mystical barrier, believing it would drive away the perceived demons.
“Begone, foul spirits!” cried their leader, a gaunt man with a shaved head and wild eyes. “Return to the abyss from whence you came!”
The undead moved on, undeterred by the zealots’ many annoying yet fruitless attempts. The fanatics' chants mingled into the procession's own mournful cacophony, creating a new and even louder performance, filled now with pleading desperate sounds that only heightened the terror. The sight of ancestral bones, animated and repurposed into abominable constructs, struck a chord of deep-seated sadness and awe among the confused and overwhelmed throngs.
Too many uneducated villagers were convinced that these were the restless spirits of their beloved ancestors. Blocking the path, up until the point of being trampled, they fell to their knees, praying and beseeching the many gods for mercy. The bone constructs, ranging from humanoid figures to centaur-like creatures and massive mammoths, moved on with a calloused precision, their obfuscated forms evoking the eternal and inevitable nature of death on their synchronized ground-shaking march.
As the constantly shifting ordeal reached the outskirts of the village, the leader of the particular Jingo society, adorned with triceratops skulls, raised his clawed hand, signaling a halt. The chanting ceased, replaced by the sound of huge bass drums and the haunting notes of horns. The theatricality and stage magic of the troupe were on full display....
want more ? It's coming... In the meantime read Gamleon's Tail .
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