The 8th king of Gimson, 8th in the line of Callistar kings to rule, Verrim II, gazed out to the courtyard of the castle Gersrik, the darkness swallowing the enclosed gardens, the groomed tree’s and resplendent flowers all engulfed in a think dark tarry haze of the night.
His eyes straying further to the great city of Smana outstretched before him, dimly lit and faintly alive even in the hours well past twilight, wafting smells of baking bread faintly to the castle.
Verrim has been restless of late, a bizarre affliction seemingly gripping many not only within his court but in the citizens of his kingdom as well, its as if there is a strange darkness in the air, a black wind that howls all around, stirring and shifting the foundations of Aph like a long deep breath before some tragic and inevitable conclusion.
Verrim lets out a long exhale, gazing at his bedchamber and knowing he will find little rest tonight yet again, unable to shake the malaise as his mind gnaws at him, gazing at his city he wonders and thinks, contemplating what the worth of all of his power and influence his family had built when he could not rid himself of this nameless unknown torment.
His eyes drifted upward from the city to the black and starless night sky, the gradient light of the city below melting into pure inky darkness. Silently the king wondered where they had gone, the stars tended to shine so bright on the cloudless skies of the early summer months, but here there were none.
No not none.
There were five.
Five queer stars shone in the corner of the kings vision, pulling his gaze from the blank canvas of the vast skyscape to the only thing that seemed to disturb the black pool.
He thought allowed, attempting to quell the rising sense of dread and foreboding they amplified once he became transfixed on them, writhing with a subtle whites streak giving away their shape, but composed of a mass that somehow seemed a even deeper and truer blackness than the night itself.
The fell into the distant pits in the sky, losing track of how long he lost himself within the unusual beauty and terror of the stars, lonesome in the sky.
Then he realized in a horror that caused him to let loose a faint gasp as his gaze finally broke and he whirled around to take in the vast panorama, that there were not 5 black stars, but countless, all writhing all seemingly encroaching in.
The King could not stop a terrible chill from running down his spine, and with this he retreated back inside to his chamber, fetching a goblet and filling it to nearly overflowing with wine with shaky hands.
Many who looked up that night would see the black stars writhing in the sky, many who looked up that night which had been held by the same curse of restlessness would no no remedy, as every day the black stars intensity grew and they seemed to reach out to all Aph, to finally personify their fears.
The Black Comets cometh.