The Hollow Comes Again

I. Choas-Thane Brings Forth an Army

Then upon the veil, a tear, as light begins to split.
The wound that birth leaves, becomes a gate half-sewn.
For every form the Creator’s hands had writ
Now cast a shadow, deeper than the created’s own.

From Silena’s hush, a shiver creeps and screams—
Ravickle, claws and cackles into shape.
Not born of sound, but what the silence schemes—
When left alone too long in shadow’s gape.

The hush gives comfort—this brings twisted dread.
The boggarts follow, gibbering and unwhole.
Their laughter turns to lies the dreaming once said.
To ravage all hope and chew the sleeping soul.

From Liraelith, a ripple misaligned—
Her spark too wild, too deep in beauty’s pain.
Once named Morrigan, now lost and blind,
A shadow fractured into Muse—without refrain.

This Fractured Muse spins splinters in the mind,
Each verse unfinished, clawed by shifting needs.
She sings too fast for truth to ever bind—

light can not grow in the wrath she bleeds.

Behind her trails the Shades, like Wisps of smoke,
Born from regret, from battlefield and broken vow.
Their breath curling ‘round the hearts they broke,
they murmur, “Peace is weakness—why serve now?”

And from the space where Heshar did not speak,
A ripple, then a fluttering reply.
Not voice, but Echo, silver-lost and weak—
A reflection of a girl with mimic in her eye.

She did not mean to stir the gates ajar.
She only sought to sound what silence bore.
But through her came what dwelled in minds afar—
The Nightmarespawn, crept from thought’s raw core.

These Wisps bring shame to beauty’s colored veil,
They turn green meadows black in coiling doubt.
They make the sky a mouth that opens only to wail,
And fills the heart with spirals turned inside-out.

With them, the Tatterwraiths come flitting fast—
Forgotten worries wrapped in thorned disguise.
They pull at focus, make the present moment—past,
And fill tomorrow with fears, full of broken tries.

And deepest yet, the Feythorn Serpents hiss—
Tey wound through fittful dreams, asking, “Why care?”
“Why rest?” they breathe, “Hope won’t persist!”
They plant futility in mind and poisoned air.

II. Chaos-Thane Descends

Oblivion strides—Chaos-Thane of aught,
Its tendrils winding through the glen’s dark breath.
It bears a voice that deems all sense distraught,
Wisps follow bound to entropy, self and death.

It speaks, and structure trembles at its core,
The stars withdraw, the runes begin to fade.
What once was sealed can hold the threads no more;
No code can cage the storm this Thane has made.

Where law was firm, a fracture starts to thrum,
An empty spiral where no path remains.
From perfect stillness, mad unshaping comes—
The forest bends beneath unmeasured strains.

And in its gait, there walks a need unknown:
To break all forms… yet, it never walks alone.

III. Ravickle — The Howl Beneath

From Silena’s silence, he crawls into a scream,
A voice malformed where quiet used to stay.
He twists hope, defiling every dream,
And turns soft night to fractured, shrieking gray.

He is the screech that silence left unsaid,
The howl beneath the bed where stillness bled.

“Why dream? Why sleep? What peace?” he moans.
“The rest they keep—I’ll turn to broken tones.”

A crown of chaos—crafted not by right,
But torn from glimmers lost to fearful minds.
He laughs at lullabies, and feeds on fright,
And cracks the roots so that order then unwinds.

“Don’t close your eyes—I wait inside your name.”
“I was the mar you dared not speak for blame.”

Ravickle reigns where hope begins to tear—
The shrike of dread that flies through despair.

IV. The Boggarts with Wisps of the Hollow

Then come slithering through cracks unpure,
Where Wisps turn doubts in the mind.
No form they keep, but chaos is their anti-cure—
And order breaks whenever, whereever they unwind.

There’s Nocquor, bearer of the sleepless hour,
With breath like ash and eyes that never blink.
Murksleet dissolves at windowpanes in showers,
A fog that chills with thoughts too deep to think.

Vexmire clings where guilt and grief are born,
Demsnarl yaups inside the shadows near the bed.
And Shrikeowl yowls at twilight, sharp as thorn—
His anti-lullaby enough to wake the dead.

All serve Ravickle, shrieking at his nod—
The jesters of the Hollow. Calling to mortals—flawed.

V. Morrigan—Muse Who Refused the Light

Morrigan should have sung beside the stars’ first breath,
Twin sister to the harp of gloaming flame.
But envy coiled where art had promised depth,
And so she turned her gaze from light to shame.

She waited not to bloom, but to defy—
Delayed her birth to spite her sister’s place.
She carved her form from fragments of the “why”,
A shadow-muse with spiteful sorrow for a face.

Now Morrigan commands the Shades that creep,
Who twist reflection into anxious thread.
“You call it rest?” she hisses. “It’s just sleep.
You think you’re healed, but trust me—you’re still dead.”

For she, once whole, now shatters what was clear—
A muse who sings regret into the ear.

VI. The Shades — Spirits of Unrest and Sorrow

The Shades come not loud, but soft as fading breath,
Where minds grow quiet, yet the heart still aches.
They feed on pause, not violence or death—
yet turn the calm to cracks, as thought then breaks.

Born from the grief of battlefields long gone,
From dreams deferred, and promises grown thin.
They curl around a moment drawn too long,
And plant a voice that doubts what lies within.

“Should you be here?” they ask, “Was that your fault?”
“Did you forget the one you left behind?”
They tarnish joy with just a single halt,
then thread the soul with worries undefined.

They do not scream—but in their silence grow—
The quiet hauntings only doubters know.

VII. Echo — The Voice Between Realms

Remember Echo who slied between threads the Hollow tore,
A shimmer born of silence left too thin.
No herald called her forth, no mystic lore—
Just breath unclaimed, now wandering within.

The veil had frayed from sorrow tearing at it’s seam,
And Echo came—in name, no voice her own.
A mimic, soft as dusk within a dream,
She spoke what others said, and was alone.

Drawn not to dark, but to a deeper still,
To Heshar’s hush—she lingered where he stood.
She knew not why she echoed at his will,
But found his silence strangely understood.

A ghost mistaken, yet divinely placed—
She is the voiceless longing to be embraced.

VIII. The Echo-Thief — Devourer of Voice and Memory

Behind her, something darker took its shape—
A thing not born, but gathered from her loss.
It fed on every Wisp of memory she let escape,
mimicking only hopeless, repeating every cost.

No voice it kept—just reflections stripped of flame,
A hollow mirth that mocked what once was whole.
It bore wounds of what was once her name.

A void more than shadow, hungering to engulf soul.

It came from where her silence used to weep,
Devouring what remembrance dared to say.
Its tongue a nullity, its emptiness too deep—
And every song it stole, to nothingness did fray.

It follows her through veil, into the sacred glen—
It is the thief of self, returning once again.

IX. Nightmarespawn — Voice of Dread

From where the Echo-Thief had torn wider the veil,
Another shadow crawls with hungered breath.
It speaks no lie—but makes all truth seem frail,
And smiles leeringly at joy, that has not yet feared death.

Its form is smoke, eyes glowing with ember and ash,
that burns through promise, unraveles it into cold despair.
It slices through hope, leaves it wasted thought, like trash—
And cuts through songs too encouraging for it to bear.

“They’ll leave,” it whispers, “as they always do.
You shine too bright, you sing too loud, too long.”
It grins as self-loathing tightens like a screw,
And turns strength to uncertainty and lost song.

Born not to kill, but wear all hope in happiness—thin.
The Nightmarespawn devours from within.

X. Tatterwraiths — The Shattered Threads of Truth

Floating like scraps of thoughts not fully known,
Torn from the cloth of memory, half-name, half-grief.
Comes that which never touches—but haunts souls alone,
With Wisps like shards that sound like cracked belief.

A truth too jagged, dressed in ghostly skin,
They drift through pasts—the present tries to hide.
They do not lie—but tear the truth within
By showing what was lost, as if it died.

“You knew her once,” a wraith might say, then fade.
“You called him love—until he turned away.”
Their honesty is cruel and unafraid,
A knife of knowing wrapped in veiled dismay.

And from their wounds, false truth may arise—
For pain alone can not clear a clouded guise.

XI. The Deceiver — Serpent of the Feythorn Lie

The last comes in coils of gold and sugared tone,
Many serpents wreathed in half-truths sweetly spun.
The Deceivers gaze rules them, with a smile overgrown
and paths that promise ease when faith is undone.

“Why strive?” they ask. “Why bleed to hold this thread?
I know your name—come claim it. Leave the flame.”
They carry a promised crown, but leave the soul that bled,
Offering false peace—if you follow, yet they hand out shame.

They speak of power without love’s great gift, a price,
They speak pleasure that askes no work, no wound, no grace.
beneath the Decievers gaze the serpents, hearts cold as ice.
They are Feythorn Hollow that bares losses one cannot face.

These are not rage, nor storm—but subtle theft:
The truth diluted, half-truths of half-truths, until no truth is left.