The Forgotten Dust

If only they knew.

If only they knew.

If only they knew the horror they’d unleashed.

If only they knew.

If only they knew that dust was meant to be left untouched.

If only they knew what it meant to be in possession of the dust that defied the light.

Hidden in a temple made purely of a solid darkness, the dust voided any form of light – both the light of our plane and the light of our souls. The room in which it sits – legend speaks – has words and cyphers made of pure light etched into the wall, supposedly left by the creators of the temple and the jailors of the darkness.

I often pondered, “What could they have jailed? The shimmerless dust? The empty darkness? The writing of light?” But I always came to the same conclusion – “Surely none of these could be of a sentience enough to lie imprisoned.”

But the dust was never just dust – no the dust was always and forever something more – a being, existed since the dawn of time, taking the souls of those it deemed necessary to destroy.

If only they knew all this, of the shapeless darkness and the warnings given by the light – that being may still have been dormant. But nay, lo since the eruption of Mount Mortem which tore open the temple, the dust scattered, and the light followed. People should have fled, but the spread just spread and spread until the people were so filled with dread they didn’t dare to tread a thread’s length outside their homes.

The dust overcame the brittle brick houses, partnered with the hot ash which had horridly fallen from the eruption after the quake which befell them.

Until one day. Until one horrific day when one stepped outside and was faced with a choice; either resist the urge to explore the seemingly endless piles of rubble laced with dust and the warnings of light to be free, or tread past the safety of his home to explore what was not meant to be explored and find meaning behind sin itself.

If only he knew.

If only they all knew, one by one they stepped out of their homes to become something new – an accursed being, void of light, void of life.

“Memory is the scribe of the soul,” said a great philosopher once. His name escapes my mind, my soul. Once they turned to the darkness they had no memory of their past life – unable to think of what caused them to be this cursed thing – of their endless sin, their endless hatred.

Over time, the turned creatures returned to that room and lay dormant till it was time to spread and overcome something more. Ever building, ever sinning, ever stealing, ever void.

If only they knew.

If only they could have known.

If only they knew.

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