Prologue: Of History’s Grave
A story of pure antiquity, a room that will remain ever vacant till the end of infinity for every nook, every space and every shadow are perilous enough to engulf ones breath and devour it in the depths of the void. Of every stanza’s a history’s grave, of every line’s a blood’s birth. It feeds of death in history’s jocund journeys and licks its velvet lips of pure pleasure as lachrymal lacewings buzz around an old oaken tree and enjoys the wrath of nature. In this profound peril of nothing but cries, pleas and death are careful critters curious enough to fell on a pitch black hole of blood, curses and murder. Of every curiosity lies beyond every gore glimpses who’ll soon conceive bleak breaths in every lips, tongues and teeth. In evening explosions dwell of pointed prisons that’ll soon stab a pure heart of someone exhibiting, insidious ignorance in different dimensions of this perilous city. A perilous city disturbed by bloody bastards who’ll soon be considered as impaled iridescence by trines of topaz. All this unnerving danger enveloped in antiquity belongs to an island; an island with matrimonial relations with death, The Island at The South.
Chapter I: Jocund Journey
The adamant air sways as the pebbles of ashen hues lie of hunger, hunger of companions; the companions who can once again restore the lost laughter of this island. The palace stood still in the midst of silence and gloom of the hills. Dilapidated daffodils danced so humble to the quiet discord of the Island of the South, Goremo. The ashen soil of the area reflects the eloquent skies up above who seems overcast and mad. It began its wrath by showering Goremo with lachrymal precipitations that soon dries and ignorantly winds up to the sea.
As this rain pours to the depths of sorrow, pools full of emerald moss lies of longing and comparison. Its abandoned fun compliments the once beautiful shores of Goremo, the shores once filled with people enjoying a summer swimming by the beach as the most elegant palace of history stood at the nearby hills of the island. The palace once crimson and filled with shining chandeliers and luminous lights and golden pillars designed with Corinthian patterns. The palace experienced this dilapidated history of threads constructed by joy and gloom; a gloom that erupted by the inner cores of the Volcano, a volcano who boiled smiles with no relaxations nor serenity, hence, blood and flesh.
…
“Really?! We are having the field trip overseas?” Takane exclaimed.
“Yes. It came from Fuka-sensei’s words, It’s Goremo, the island.” Yukari stated as cold as winter’s blizzard.
The Chroniclers stormed their opinions as Yukari announced news to the group. It was a trip, to the Island at The South, Goremo. This exhilarating topic never made it to give everyone the same feeling as it is. A trip of academics and adventure feels vague itself, in addition to this bland and bored atmosphere, think of what lies beyond this mysterious island who once portrayed luxury and elegance.
“Goremo? It’s an island at the south west of Silvermyster City.” Sayuri followed as she held an atlas by her hand.
“But it wasn’t a resort in present days since the 1993 volcanic eruption.” Netsuro added in conclusion as he chomps on his chocolate fudge brownies glazed with caramel and oozing with glucose icings.
“But since it’s destroyed, why would Fuka-sensei still wants us to travel there?” Unagi asked as he dribbled a ball, up and down, up and down.
