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Schoolgirls disappear and adults don’t bat an eye.
A grim reaper stalks skylines, severing blossoms before they wither.
Monsters steal memories and skin, deceiving and seducing their way to their next prey.
Two men twist hearts for their own ends, their paths parallel and opposing.
Bleak graylight scours the night clean of dreams.
Pale starlight burns the shadows from the day.
And somewhere, nowhere, the Lostman watches and waits.
For another lamb to answer.
For another lamb to desire.
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Schoolgirls disappear and adults don’t bat an eye.
A grim reaper stalks skylines, severing blossoms before they wither.
Monsters steal memories and skin, deceiving and seducing their way to their next prey.
Two men twist hearts for their own ends, their paths parallel and opposing.
Bleak graylight scours the night clean of dreams.
Pale starlight burns the shadows from the day.
And somewhere, nowhere, the Lostman watches and waits.
For another lamb to answer.
For another lamb to desire.
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...........................................................................................................................The metropolis of Tenoroshi exists under a veneer of calm, a monochrome cityscape indistinguishable from so many others. Monorails curve eloquently around towers of glass and steel, while convenience stores sprout like weeds every three blocks. School-bound children share the same streets as wage slaves and punk rockers, a human melting pot created by a too-small world, while warehouses and amusement parks stand empty, relics of a brighter past abandoned by an untrusting present. No one forgets though. The smokestacks of the crematorium inhales and exhales day in and day out. A holy man stands watch over the graveyard, ringing a bell to help the dead pass on. Streetside memorials emerge as splashes of color upon the pavement, whether it be for those lost by accident, lost by malice, or simply lost. Grayscale is the world of eight hundred thousand people, no matter how bright the neon lights of the red-light district, how vibrant the beats of the downtown core.
This indifference and numbness though, is what keeps this microcosm of a world functioning.
Beneath the grayscale veneer of Tenoroshi is a world that no ordinary person would want to comprehend. Grisly murders go uninvestigated and unreported, dying with the memories of the victims. Buildings vanish overnight, leaving nothing but empty, overgrown lots. The mayor of the town never appears in person, but continues to win elections, over and over again. Rumors and superstitions cross the airwaves constantly, as television hosts invite psychologists and hacks to make sense of the incomprehensible. But no consensus is ever reached, and the legends only grow. Of the Firefly that metes out infernal retribution, bearing a burning hand, a burning heart. Of the Ghost of the Electronic Matrix, the second dimension fairy that scatters itself into the void of the unseen spectrum. Of Harmoney, the true overseers of the human race, the ones who pull the strings without ever revealing their faces. All things that no ordinary person would want to comprehend, all things that no ordinary person would want to face, to explore.
But for those that do delve beneath the grayscale veneer of the metropolis that doesn’t care, they would undoubtedly be lead to a certain tale. The story of the Lostman, the messianic figure that would grant the faithful the power to change the world or the power to change themselves, but never both. And never for any price, nor to achieve any particular goal. The most famous enigma of all, the most obscure of them all, the most debated, the most misunderstood.
This indifference and numbness though, is what keeps this microcosm of a world functioning.
Beneath the grayscale veneer of Tenoroshi is a world that no ordinary person would want to comprehend. Grisly murders go uninvestigated and unreported, dying with the memories of the victims. Buildings vanish overnight, leaving nothing but empty, overgrown lots. The mayor of the town never appears in person, but continues to win elections, over and over again. Rumors and superstitions cross the airwaves constantly, as television hosts invite psychologists and hacks to make sense of the incomprehensible. But no consensus is ever reached, and the legends only grow. Of the Firefly that metes out infernal retribution, bearing a burning hand, a burning heart. Of the Ghost of the Electronic Matrix, the second dimension fairy that scatters itself into the void of the unseen spectrum. Of Harmoney, the true overseers of the human race, the ones who pull the strings without ever revealing their faces. All things that no ordinary person would want to comprehend, all things that no ordinary person would want to face, to explore.
But for those that do delve beneath the grayscale veneer of the metropolis that doesn’t care, they would undoubtedly be lead to a certain tale. The story of the Lostman, the messianic figure that would grant the faithful the power to change the world or the power to change themselves, but never both. And never for any price, nor to achieve any particular goal. The most famous enigma of all, the most obscure of them all, the most debated, the most misunderstood.
They are the key and lock to the underbelly of Tenoroshi.
They are the root of every impossible incident.
They are the beholder of all.
The asker of one.
What would you change? The world or yourself?
They are the root of every impossible incident.
They are the beholder of all.
The asker of one.
What would you change? The world or yourself?
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