The Watchers

Under silence they come.
Thin fingers and long limbs stream across the walls like liquid ink spilling across papers.
The shadows of the ancient healers are here under the guise of demons in the night.
Like dark stars they reign in the background while most of us remain unaware.
The few, the chosen few can feel them rise, can hear their call, can taste their fear.
Like drumbeats becoming more frantic as the banshee dances wildly, increasing tempo and time.
Faces of shock and exasperation are all too common now as the dark healers emerge,
Exhausted from the heat of the world, burning so hot and deep at the core.
Halfway starved and clothes hanging in shreds and tatters.
Barely surviving their ascent into this upper world.
They are reaching out to us now.
The few, the scarred and beaten, the sinners and deceivers, the truth-seekers, the bearers of justice, the reapers of life and death where good and evil burn together as one.

We each carry our weapons, our secret techniques of offence and defence.
They'll never see us coming.
Silent stalkers floating through the darkness
We are master assassins, trained servants of the underworld, the core of all beings.
The fates of all lives begin and end here.
Ayngorh.
The rip in the fabric of time beneath the surface of the earth.
Ayngorh.
Forged of metal, born in chains, trained as warriors.
Ayngorh.
Our blood is our oath and we are enslaved to each other as we are to our destiny.

We emerge from the fire as children and try to stay under the radar of society's constant vigilance for over-complicated order.
The militant call of the oppressors that heed the ears of the world over.
A constant threat to freedom and individuality in a world of plenty
A waterfall of over-saturated media plugged into the backs of eyeballs everywhere.