The Pale Shepherd
Sit down, dear reader, and I shall spin you a tale of terrors unknown and nightmares made flesh. Be forewarned; this is no ordinary story - it may very well chill you to your core.
Yet, you still wish to hear this ghastly tale, do ya? Well, I did warn ya. Here goes...
The Pale Shepherd
On the outskirts of a tiny hamlet in the heart of dense woods, there lived an old blind shepherd by the name of Oswald. Curiously, he wasn't born blind - 'twas his constant communion with the spirit realm that robbed him of his sight. A constant companion of his, was a coal-black raven named Shadow.
"He's the only one who can see what I see"
...Oswald would often mutter to the wary villagers.
One bitter winter's night, a knock echoed upon the weathered door of Oswald's hovel. Upon opening, Oswald found a shivering maiden, asking for shelter against the storm. In her arms, she held a swaddled babe, whose only movements were sternum-rattling cries.
"Come in, come in..., a storm sure ain't no place for a babe"
...whispered Oswald as he ushered the pair inside.
But as the woman crossed the threshold, Shadow squawked in alarm. Oswald went pale but said nothing. That night, the chilling cries of the babe filled the deafening silence of the darkened forest.
The next morning, Oswald found the maiden gone, leaving the infant still swaddled in a basket of straw. Feeling a shudder, Oswald sternly held Shadow as he felt around the basket. His gnarled fingers found icy, bloodless flesh.
"This ain't no ordinary babe",
...whispered Oswald as fear chilled him more than the frosty air.
Days turned into weeks, and the babe, whom Oswald had named Moros, showed no signs of life or growth, save for the cold, unblinking pallor of its dead eyes. Yet, still it wept every night with an unnatural fervor that set the forest abuzz with whispers of fear and dread.
Then came a night when Moros didn't cry. A silence stretched over the shrouded forest so complete it was as if the world had paused its breath. Guided by Shadow, Oswald stumbled his way to the crib and recoiled in terror.
"This...this ain't right!",
...he gasped. Moros wasn't there. In his stead, lay a grotesque shadowy figure barely the size of a newborn, yet exuding an aura of ancient malevolence.
Before Oswald could approach it, the figure rose, floating in the air. It produced a cry that pierced the airwaves, shaking the forest to its roots.
The villagers recounted that around that same dreadful hour, the night had split open with an unholy shriek that swallowed the moonlight, drowning the world into an eerie darkness.
From then onwards, the villagers started disappearing. First the elders, then the children, and then those brave men who ventured into the woods in search of the damned.
The nightmares had become reality and the villagers knew it to be the baleful Curse of Moros.
These ghastly tales of Moros linger still around the dying flames of campfires. A chill on the wind, a rustle in the leaves, and one can't help but shiver at the thought of those unblinking, pallid eyes lurking in the shadowy depths of the wilderness.
Remember my warning, dear reader? This wasn't a story for the faint-hearted. Should you ever stumble upon a decrepit, deserted hamlet surrounded by an eerily silent forest, remember the tale of the Pale Shepherd and keep a wary eye out for the unblinking horrors of Moros.
God help you if you ignore this advice, for you'll be stepping into the realm of the damned.
