#mortwight

Morbærsanger / Mortwight

Moonworshipper Records

“My name is Cyrus Bollai.

“I was born in Sterling Heights, Michigan.

“I’m dead, but I ain’t fuckin’ gone.”

Marching down the hall darkened hall he repeated this over and over as he tossed his baseball bat from hand to hand. Shining, wrapped in barbed wire, waiting to be pumped full of energy-- emotion-- and woken up with crackling electricity.

Like many things in the Shadowlands-- the other side-- his baseball bat used to be someone. He can still hear it faintly moan, maybe weep, but his preternaturally keen ears are tuned in on different noises.

Rushing.

Scraping.

Knocking.

In life, this building is a failing automotive plant. In death, it is a bleak, dilapidated labyrinth of soulforged bricks and rippling pools of pure black. Nihils, he’d heard his new friends, his Circle, call them, portals into some wretched place.

I should be with them, he thought, I shouldn’t be in this fuckin’ fuck-pit.

But you aren’t with them, whispered the voice in the back of his head, you’re here, doing your job.

Shut up, shut up, I heard you the first ten fuckin’ times, you cunt, shut UP.

I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.

I don’t fuckin’ give a fuck what you want. Now ain’t the goddamn time.

It’s not? murmured the voice as Cyrus rounded a corner, his eyes falling upon a figure at the far end of the crumbling, mold-stained hall. Tall, lean, wearing a stained and ragged jacket and a pair of beat to shit jeans. The man was whistling pleasantly to himself, locking a door that was clearly soulforged, solid to him and, thus, immune to the fancy trick of just ghosting right on through.

Cyrus looked at the man’s feet. There was a nihil. A mix of exasperation and pre-assbeating vigor surged through his... well. He didn’t have veins. Surged through his ectoplasm, a much headier rush than he’d ever known while alive.

“Hey,” he called out, “you oughtta unlock that, I gotta get through.”

The man turned completely to stare at Cyrus, stuffing the relic key in his jacket. A lantern jaw, slicked-back feathery hair, and a pair of piercing, dead green eyes, in the center of which there glinted an evil black light.

More importantly than that, though, was the fact that most of the right side of the nihil-man’s face, save for his eye, was... gone. Like someone had knocked out part of an eggshell, but instead of yolk and eggwhite there was pure blackness and a faint, constant trail of oily black mist that meandered its way down to the nihil at his feet.

He was a spectre. One of those wretched souls that had given in to despair and hate and--

Oh, no, you’re only half-right, chided the voice as the spectre pulled out a  .45, acid-stained and corroded but still cocked and lethal. He is a spectre... but he was always a spectre.

Mortwight & Forgotten Ghost - A History of Mourning

Realm and Ritual

Mortwight / Blood Tower - Western Death Spells / An Unsustainable Horror

Moonworshipper Records