The disarray of our people had torn my soul asunder. Decrepitude lingered still, years even after the war had left us as we were then- a crippled, stagnating shell of a society. Though we had rebuilt our homes and hospitals, our schools and factories, we were unable to rebuild ourselves. We had resurrected ruined monuments from rubble. Our spirit, however, remained buried.

The apocalyptic collapse of the United Nations had devastated the entire planet, but it was us in Eire who bore the brunt of the damage. War had arrived in the Emerald Isle, allies turned assassins, and decimated our cities, our citizens and our culture. Our economy was crippled, the Celtic Tiger cruelly poached by the American war machine. Even after the war left us, after we drove out the malicious soldiers of capitalist greed, we were broken. Unable to live, yet too consumed with pride to die, we could do naught but linger, barely exist. Exist alone.

Then, through the choking, stifling fog of war, He came. No one knew Him or His face, though it was clear that he was of old Gaelic descent. I should now state, that He was not an overly imposing man. In His early twenties maybe, the stranger stood at barely five feet, ten inches. Yet His stature was irrelevant. It was the eyes that captivated our souls, weaving untold and heretofore unknown spells of persuasion and glorious promise. Blue fire was captured within those eyes, bending the lives and minds of men to His will. Men, laymen and what remained of the upper classes alike, bowed before Him without knowing why. He was greeted with the respect due to a king or monarch wherever He traveled, which He did most often, to spread His message of rejuvenation. He stood as a beacon of hope, an obelisk of stability in our time of greatest turmoil and turbulence. His name, He told us, was An Tenebrae Dubh, the Prevailing Darkness.

For months, Tenebrae Dubh traveled through the settlements and cities of our decrepit civilization. Then, at last, He arrived in DubhLinnNua. That He would speak unto us words of great importance was guaranteed, and I longed to meet with Him. And so, that very evening, I stood alone outside the Four Courts, now a decrepit, blasted ruin beside a filthy, half choked stream.

Dressed entirely in black so as not to draw the attention of the bloodthirsty, over zealous Guardians of the Peace, I proceeded up the bullet ridden steps of the fallen Bastille, used during the Liberation as a stronghold, up to the scarred steel of the entranceway. The smell of blood lingered still. With the groan of a hundred deceased soldiers, the massive portal scraped open, admitting us into the belly of our fallen Government. The crowd, myself among them, slunk inside.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. The omnipresent odour of decay, sewage and despair I had endured these past miserable years disappeared the instant we entered the building and I breathed deep the clean air within. As soon as I had noticed the absence of one odour, I noticed the presence of another, far subtler smell. Not the stench of sweat and filth of before, far different. I smelled blood.

I stood at the edge of a massive room. Walls, it seemed, had simply been removed in order to accommodate the arrival of those assembled. A central dais stood as the focal point of the otherwise empty room. Faint electric lights were the only source of illumination. Overhead, the shadow hidden beams of the rafters creaked ominously. It was a room, I thought, designed to make the guest nervous. I smiled uneasily the the layout. How theatrical.

Suddenly, the massive metal door slammed shut with tremendous force. A temporary panic gripped those assembled, causing the more rash among us to draw concealed weapons. Switchblades and kitchen knives glinted in the half light and, yes, even I clutched a twelve inch dagger in my sweating palm. Nothing existed to meet these flashing blades. As the embarrassed panickers resheathed their steel protectors, a soft, insidious laughter floated down from the makeshift platform before us. There, lit by the new, fiery glow of a thousand candles, clad in midnight black mail and a cloak of deep crimson, stood Tenebrae Dubh.

He spoke at length of the failure of our society, words which a hundred charlatans had uttered before and had always been half truths or outright lies. We could have, should have felt compelled to leave. We weren’t, we didn’t. His voice held us rooted. Like a rich wine, it flowed into our ears, promising redemption, an escape from this decrepitude. We would be a new race, an invincible army, equaled only by the Gods of old. Maybe better. We would march to the oldest war; retake the old ground from whence our brothers and liberators were cast from. Now confusion infiltrated the crowd. One foolishly brave soul voiced our ignorance of these terms, this ‘old ground’. Tenebrae Dubh smiled. Or, rather, bared his teeth. Terror replaced confusion as we glimpsed the animalistic fangs within his mouth. He opened wide his jaw and, tilting his head skyward, sent a terrible howl to the firmament. The response he earned is that which drove me from that arena of horror and out again into the obsidian abyss of the night.

For down from the rafters the source of the earlier creaking descended upon those assembled. Hideous parodies of dragons flew at us, uttering mind numbing cries identical to that of Tenebrae Dubh. Each one of the black, nightmarish creatures was over nine feet long, their wingspan easily matching this every time they beat in the breezeless air. They were without legs, instead bearing a whiplash tail tipped in a foot long blade of chitin like material, as black as onyx. Their arms ended in even more terrible blades, three foot long scythes emerging from their limbs. From their foreheads and continuing up their long skulls erupted a series of short, curved horns. Their eyes were glowing slashes of crimson and gold, glaring out from their Kafkaesque faces. These demonic hellions shrieked and dove, rending the very air with their malice, yet they did not attack the hapless, petrified crowd. Tenebrae Dubh had not stirred since summoning these abhorrent monstrosities. He spoke now.

‘My friends! You can see what the Tyrant has done to my people! Tore them from their celestial bodies, imprisoned them in these cages of twisted flesh and cast them down to be hated and feared. He caused this! He caused your plight too, by merely watching! The Quiet Observer sits upon his crystal throne, the power to eradicate your suffering within his grasp. Yet he merely sits and watches, refuses to help you. This travesty must end! I can show you a new path. I need only an army, to stand shoulder to shoulder and fight by my side for justice. Through me the way to the Golden City. Join my cause, and we will march on, retake Paradise, and live as we deserve. Let us live as we should!’

An almighty roar erupted from the crowd, and for a moment I could not tell human voice from not. I did not cheer. I knew then who Tenebrae Dubh truly was, and I wanted no part in his mad, evil war. I was done with war. I fled to the doors, tore them open and fled from the accursed shell of a building out into the stinking, woe filled night beyond. I began a steady run towards home, trying to make sense of that which I had just experienced. Could I truly believe that event had taken place? I craned my neck to look back at the building where I had seen fools, demons and a crazed madman. I strained my eyes in the fading light, peering through the darkness at the looming shadow.

Lightning blue eyes returned my gaze.

The piercing, soul rending cry I had come to associate with Tenebrae Dubh’s unholy army sounded. Answering shrieks arose, surrounding me in a cacophony of hellish wails. I raced down the street, sprinting past the burnt out cars, the shelled buildings and the untold numbers of the displaced, lost denizens of the city. I ran, feet pounding the tarmac like the drums of primal Congo, hearing ever louder the incessant beat of those horrible winged devils pursuing me. I felt a tail whip around my legs, tripped, and fell into nightmare.

Screaming demons, laughing faces, innumerable voices and images invaded my dream world, flashing before my sleeping eyes. My logic tried to reassure me, but I know the difference between simple night pictures and the terrifying, dark prophecies of the True Gods. I could not deny these infinite dreams, nor could I resist the sweet promises that the diabolical voice of Tenebrae Dubh whispered into my sleeping ear. I woke screaming, my keening, demonic cry rending the night with the force of its agony. And thirst.

I no longer fear capture by that which pursues me, be they man or demon. The ravenous dark fliers of Tenebrae Dubh chase me in the night no longer. I have joined them. The lies of the Quiet Observer try to keep mankind in submission to his abominable regime. All Tenebrae Dubh wants is our freedom. He has shown the truth of existence.

I have joined the cavorting demons of the night who pledged themselves to Tenebrae Dubh’s cause. We fight for justice, to avenge the First of us, Azazel, and his murder by the hands the Tyrant’s followers.  We fight to free you. His lies shall be revealed, his priests slaughtered and his temples burnt in the glorious flames of redemption. In His name I rend apart the evildoers and spill the blood of the false prophets. We bathe in their blood, and shall continue to do so until victory. Damnation is a small price of our liberty.