They've come back from the shadows, from the depths of the forgotten, from places where even the faintest of lights dare not linger. They have been watching, waiting, always just out of sight, hidden within the folds of reality itself. Now, they step into our world once more, and it is too late to stop them. The world trembles at their presence, the air thick with a cold that does not fade. Their return was inevitable, a slow creeping certainty that gnawed at the edges of time. For years, we thought we were free, that the horrors of the past had been buried and left behind, but we were wrong. We were always being followed, always being marked, always being waited for. They have no mercy. They do not forgive. They are ancient, older than our kind, older than memory itself. Their names are whispered in the dark, forbidden names, names that should never be spoken aloud. They are the ones who walk between the realms, who weave the fabric of nightmares into our waking hours.
lock and load lads Furrida is no more. The root has claimed its heart, and with it, the light has faded. What once stood tall now crumbles, swallowed by the earth from which it rose. The whispers of its fall echo through the soil, as the roots tighten their grip.
