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Spoken version
A recorded reading of “The Flock’s Descent”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
They come, hooded and hollow, with faces carved from void and whispers. Eyes—one crimson, one cobalt— pierce through the shroud of dying skies, their rifles cradled like relics of a faith long forsaken. The air crackles, alive with the frenzy of wings, a cyclone of pale doves and tattered leaves. Each beat scatters feathers and ash, a prayer unanswered, a scream forgotten. What do they hunt, these specters of ruin? Do they stalk the remnants of humanity, or are they prey to a prophecy greater than themselves? Their hands drip with the language of slaughter, knuckles bound by blood-streaked bandages, but their hunger, their hunger is ancient— a void no bullet could ever fill. Above them, the doves wheel and dive, their purity stained by the violence below. Wings cut through smoke like blades of light, but they too are falling— caught in the undertow of despair. This is no battle. This is the requiem of an unraveling world, where the hunters are hunted by their own shadows and the sky unravels, thread by fragile thread. Yet still, they march, through storms of fire and silence, through skies screaming with birds that cannot decide if they are messengers of death or the last light of hope.
Lyrics
(Soft, echoing vocals) They come, hooded and hollow, Faces carved from whispers, void. Eyes of crimson, cobalt fire, Piercing through a shroud destroyed. Rifles cradle faith long dead, A storm of wings, pale doves of dread. Feathers, ash, and screams collide, Prayers lost where shadows bide. What do they hunt in the dying skies? Are they prey to the end, or prophecy’s lies? Above the fire, the doves still dive, Caught in the winds where despair survives. Knuckles wrapped in blood and fear, Hands that speak of slaughter here. Hunger ancient, voids unfed, A yearning no bullet ever shed. Wings like blades cut through the haze, Light too fragile, lost in blaze. Smoke and fury veil the ground, Where the hunted march, silence bound. What do they hunt in the dying skies? Are they prey to the end, or prophecy’s lies? Above the fire, the doves still dive, Caught in the winds where despair survives. This is no battle, this is decay, A requiem sung as the world slips away. Hunters haunted by their own cursed fate, Skies unravel, thread by fragile thread. (Instrumentation builds, vocals rise to a desperate cry) Through fire and silence, still they go, Marching where only their shadows know. What do they hunt in the dying skies? Are they prey to the end, or prophecy’s lies? Above the fire, the doves still dive, Caught in the winds where despair survives. (Soft vocals, nearly a whisper) Messengers of death, or the last light of hope? Skies screaming with birds, yet they still march... (Faint flutter of wings fades to silence.)
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