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Description

    His name is taboo. Speak of it he will find you. But what is he, how is he, who? The legends and myths you hear of him are all true.

    The doctor who came to cure the Isles of its darkness found himself at the mercy of the heartless. The carcasses which filled the forests and villages came to life by the power of their own strife. The existence of the Isles came through the power of endless torture and trials, of conjurations and demonic exaltations as escapes from life's bitter grapes. So the doctor found himself at an end, with nothing malleable to amend. But their strings.

    The strings held by the darkness's folly, made of the corpses toy and dolly. The skeletons of evidence pointed to a source of power emanating from before the age's hour. Perhaps if he found it he could free the shadows and end their wallows and wails found in the hollows of trees and gallows. So the man took up darkness's embrace and became one of a familiar race of dead with no trace of his old living face. A mask of a cadaver, the shadowy actor behind the Isle's curation and transformation. With shadow at hand and magic through strand, he could piece the world from before darkness's stand. The voodoo puppeteer, he called himself, able to disappear right before the shadows come near. But right then he pulls the strings and makes the darkness follow his echoes and rings. A master of the fallen things to return the world to a time of living kings through the exploitation of the soul's silent strings. Their strings.

    Upon himself he took darkness and spite to make the world turn into something he thought was right. But those in the shadows knew that this was their night. A night of blight without a sight of light, making the darkness glow ever bright. The ghouls and ghasts ran from the shaman's paths, finding shelter in the fallen masts of those who did this before and breathed their last. Uncowering empowering now towering the shaman continued to take the world, devouring. At last, his breaths began to falter, but his old and aged body built an altar. His mission unfinished and darkness to be diminished, the shaman built a table upon where began his fable, to revive and allow his work to thrive. Upon his death with his final breath, he defied the living death. A puppet of his own began to groan as the isle's light shown. With strings.

    But now he sees what he had missed and seized. Death still breathing away from life unredeeming, he entered a world of the dreaming. His body no more, and his corpse now torn, he follows the Isles to war with his soul now sworn. A marionette of the darkness by bayonet, unliving undying not breathing nor crying. Forced to fight without his own dying light, he falters in darkness with only strings as his harness. He thinks he has his own will, but only the isles are in control of his every wooden twill. But the dead he seeks no more, but now upon the living he will come ashore. To take a body and make it his, hollow it as a puppet, a bundle of his. Attach it with string and who knows what else he’ll bring. But those who know of his tale lie behind darkness's veil, for those who hear and lend their ear will know his name and will die in shame. Call his name he'll come out of the blue. I'll give you a hint: his name is something of Tabu…

And now he’s coming for you. Your strings...

Description

    His name is taboo. Speak of it he will find you. But what is he, how is he, who? The legends and myths you hear of him are all true.

    The doctor who came to cure the Isles of its darkness found himself at the mercy of the heartless. The carcasses which filled the forests and villages came to life by the power of their own strife. The existence of the Isles came through the power of endless torture and trials, of conjurations and demonic exaltations as escapes from life's bitter grapes. So the doctor found himself at an end, with nothing malleable to amend. But their strings.

    The strings held by the darkness's folly, made of the corpses toy and dolly. The skeletons of evidence pointed to a source of power emanating from before the age's hour. Perhaps if he found it he could free the shadows and end their wallows and wails found in the hollows of trees and gallows. So the man took up darkness's embrace and became one of a familiar race of dead with no trace of his old living face. A mask of a cadaver, the shadowy actor behind the Isle's curation and transformation. With shadow at hand and magic through strand, he could piece the world from before darkness's stand. The voodoo puppeteer, he called himself, able to disappear right before the shadows come near. But right then he pulls the strings and makes the darkness follow his echoes and rings. A master of the fallen things to return the world to a time of living kings through the exploitation of the soul's silent strings. Their strings.

    Upon himself he took darkness and spite to make the world turn into something he thought was right. But those in the shadows knew that this was their night. A night of blight without a sight of light, making the darkness glow ever bright. The ghouls and ghasts ran from the shaman's paths, finding shelter in the fallen masts of those who did this before and breathed their last. Uncowering empowering now towering the shaman continued to take the world, devouring. At last, his breaths began to falter, but his old and aged body built an altar. His mission unfinished and darkness to be diminished, the shaman built a table upon where began his fable, to revive and allow his work to thrive. Upon his death with his final breath, he defied the living death. A puppet of his own began to groan as the isle's light shown. With strings.

    But now he sees what he had missed and seized. Death still breathing away from life unredeeming, he entered a world of the dreaming. His body no more, and his corpse now torn, he follows the Isles to war with his soul now sworn. A marionette of the darkness by bayonet, unliving undying not breathing nor crying. Forced to fight without his own dying light, he falters in darkness with only strings as his harness. He thinks he has his own will, but only the isles are in control of his every wooden twill. But the dead he seeks no more, but now upon the living he will come ashore. To take a body and make it his, hollow it as a puppet, a bundle of his. Attach it with string and who knows what else he’ll bring. But those who know of his tale lie behind darkness's veil, for those who hear and lend their ear will know his name and will die in shame. Call his name he'll come out of the blue. I'll give you a hint: his name is something of Tabu…

And now he’s coming for you. Your strings...