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Spoken version
A recorded reading of “The Watchers of the Wastes”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
In the barren expanse where silence reigns, they stand— horned sentinels carved from shadow and bone, rising stark against the indifferent sun. The wind weaves whispered hymns through their tattered cloaks, a dirge sung for the desolate and the damned. Their masks, skeletal and timeless, bear the weight of ancient oaths, symbols of the line between life and void. Hollow eyes pierce the veil of time, their gaze fixed on the eternal now— where all beginnings fold into endings, and all endings circle back to beginnings. One holds a staff, a scarred axis of existence, its surface worn smooth by the ages it bears. The other’s robes spill like a shadowed sea, veiling truths too vast for light, too sacred for mortal eyes. Together, they are balance: the flesh and the ether, the known and the veiled, guardians of the threshold where chaos sleeps in stillness. They are not rulers but warnings, their presence a mirror to time’s endless cycle. The horns that crown them echo a primeval memory, roots reaching back to when the earth first groaned under the weight of creation. Their silence is not absence, but a truth too deep for words, a stillness that binds fragile order to the chaos waiting below. The earth beneath trembles in reverence. This is no place for the living— only shadows tread here, their fleeting steps erased by time’s breath. Yet the Watchers endure, silent priests of the wasteland, their vigil unbroken. They do not guard the land, but the boundary between— the fragile seam where man must not trespass, lest the ancient rise from its burial. To disturb the Watchers is to summon the unraveling, to crack the seal of what must not wake. For they are keepers of the unthinkable, wardens of the forgotten, and the last defense against the silence that devours.
Lyrics
In the barren expanse where silence reigns, They stand— Horned sentinels carved from shadow and bone, Rising stark against the indifferent sun. The wind weaves whispered hymns Through their tattered cloaks, A dirge sung for the desolate and the damned. They do not guard the land, But the boundary between— Where chaos sleeps in stillness, Where time forgets its name. Their masks, skeletal and timeless, Bear the weight of ancient oaths. Hollow eyes pierce the veil of time, Fixed on the eternal now. The earth beneath trembles in reverence. This is no place for the living. Only shadows tread here, Their fleeting steps erased by time’s breath. They do not guard the land, But the boundary between— Where chaos sleeps in stillness, Where time forgets its name. To disturb the Watchers is to summon the unraveling… For they are keepers of the unthinkable… And the last defense against the silence that devours.
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