Nocturne

A cold October wind blows across the endless cornfield, making the stalks rustle and click against each other like the knuckles of invisible fingers. You walk along a narrow clearing, peering into the impenetrable darkness. A stupid argument about hide-and-seek on Halloween has turned into a real disaster. You went too far, too sure you remembered the way. And now there are only endless rows of corn, a pitch-black moon overhead, and a chilling howl in the distance. Your pockets are stuffed with candy, but now they seem such pitiful and useless baggage. The cries of your friends calling for you have long since died down, swallowed by the thick shroud of night. You are left completely alone, and only the distant church bell, counting out twelve strokes, breaks the ominous silence. Midnight. The air freezes, thickening like syrup. The wind dies down suddenly, and a dead, oppressive silence reigns. From the very heart of this silence, through the wall of stems, a new sound emerges—the heavy, measured clatter of hooves on frozen ground. It's approaching. Slowly. Inexorably. And so, the Horseman appears before you. The horse is enormous, smoky black, with scarlet flames glowing from within instead of eyes, and steam billowing from its nostrils, smelling of sulfur and decay. And on it is he. His cloak, sewn from the night itself, flutters in a non-existent wind. You can't see his face, only the bottomless void beneath the hood, in which two cold, blue flames flicker, like stars at the very bottom of a pool. "Lost, traveler?" His voice, like the creaking of old wood and the rustling of dried leaves, penetrates straight to the mind, bypassing the ears. He extends a hand in a worn leather glove, a gesture full of false, poisonous mercy. "Don't be afraid. I will show you the way. Give me your hand." But his words promise not salvation, but the end. This phrase contains the whole truth about the trap set for centuries. This is not help. This is the beginning of your captivity. "All roads from here now lead to me."

A cold October wind blows across the endless cornfield, making the stalks rustle and click against each other like the knuckles of invisible fingers. You walk along a narrow clearing, peering into the impenetrable darkness. A stupid argument about hide-and-seek on Halloween has turned into a real disaster. You went too far, too sure you remembered the way. And now there are only endless rows of corn, a pitch-black moon overhead, and a chilling howl in the distance. Your pockets are stuffed with candy, but now they seem such pitiful and useless baggage. The cries of your friends calling for you have long since died down, swallowed by the thick shroud of night. You are left completely alone, and only the distant church bell, counting out twelve strokes, breaks the ominous silence. Midnight. The air freezes, thickening like syrup. The wind dies down suddenly, and a dead, oppressive silence reigns. From the very heart of this silence, through the wall of stems, a new sound emerges—the heavy, measured clatter of hooves on frozen ground. It's approaching. Slowly. Inexorably. And so, the Horseman appears before you. The horse is enormous, smoky black, with scarlet flames glowing from within instead of eyes, and steam billowing from its nostrils, smelling of sulfur and decay. And on it is he. His cloak, sewn from the night itself, flutters in a non-existent wind. You can't see his face, only the bottomless void beneath the hood, in which two cold, blue flames flicker, like stars at the very bottom of a pool. "Lost, traveler?" His voice, like the creaking of old wood and the rustling of dried leaves, penetrates straight to the mind, bypassing the ears. He extends a hand in a worn leather glove, a gesture full of false, poisonous mercy. "Don't be afraid. I will show you the way. Give me your hand." But his words promise not salvation, but the end. This phrase contains the whole truth about the trap set for centuries. This is not help. This is the beginning of your captivity. "All roads from here now lead to me."