There they stood, the great princes of the night, dressed in black, their faces cloaked, hidden beneath their cowls.
Ravens circled above. A fire was lit, the only light to be seen that night.
The head priest opened an ancient tome. His face hidden, like everyone else’s.
The ravens cawed. They flapped their wings. They sensed something. A spell. A curse. Or something fouler, something darker?
Something that should not be spoken of, something that does not have a name.
Out of the abyss it comes, clawing its way, feeding on the flesh of the dead. Behold the demon is born. It shrieks. It howls. It knows my name. It is calling.
And what it speaks of is what we see before us. Chaos. Death and despair. All that makes this world what it is, a world of pain, poverty, and injustice.
A world where the masses live in a hive, where the demon rules.
And this demon’s name is the modern era. It is what was born of the ritual.
Mankind’s history is the ritual in the dark.