[ WP ] A hero charges into a dark temple . They want to talk with the demon/dark god .

It was night. 
 
 It was always night when entering the palace and for the wayward son it was no different. 
 
 Before it was night the son had stood outside for quite some time, studying the structure where it sat cradled among spires of ashen rock and obsidian that fell and rose from the mountainside like the impossible roots of some great, carnivorous tree. The broken limbs of a twisted and forgotten god. A city-temple abandoned. 
 
 The building itself rested impotent and inert, its dark and crumbling outer walls giving the impression of a howl buried beneath trembling hands. It had been early when the wayward son had found the lost palace, the sun only just crowning above a horizon, yellow and blue. He was unsure if it was the right object of his search. The wayward son had moved closer and found the sun sunken, blood red and purple-black, like a too ripe fruit. He had moved closer and closer still until it was night and he had known it was the right place. The nameless and forgotten temple, the palace of the broken god, the city that drinks the sun. He had found it. 
 
 The wayward son paused and stared up at the night sky to find it filled with strange and alien constellations, stars he'd never seen before. The lights whirred and moved with impossible speed at the periphery of his vision, rewriting the sky into an inky tale of undying death and nameless beings. The wayward son shivered and gripped the handle of his sword. The wayward son entered the palace. 
 
 Inside, the city seemed half way grown. There was a roughness to the architecture as if it had been, not chiseled or built, but eaten into design. The hallways spiralled in seeming endlessness, converging into themselves and forming great cavernous walkways. The floors were a polished onyx but quivered with the dust and ash of undisturbed centuries. 
 
 The wayward son felt eyes, cold and alien, peering at him from the shadows. When he stopped and looked, he found nothing. It was as if he was watched by eyes removed, not by the distance of the rooms he trod, but by strange and weird eons, as if unseen things observed him from across a vast cavern of time. 
 
 The wayward son came finally to the altar room, a gaping maw of a hall. So cavernous was it that looking up he could not see the ceiling. A coolness like autumn wind floated across his face. He did not draw his blade but instead moved further into the dark. The wayward son did not carry a torch, he had long since trained his eyes to discern between shadow and true darkness. He had trained a great many things in preparation of this moment. All around him sat shadows, spilt like blood across mossy floor and crumbled walls. Before him, at the end of the cavern where he knew the altar should sit was darkness. True darkness. 
 
 The darkness saw him. He felt its eyes move upon him like thick coagulated rot. The wayward son felt the dark and broken god, the defeated demon, rumble and shake from out the shroud of dreams it slumbered within. 
 
 The wayward son lowered his hand from the hilt of his reforged sword, once three blades and now one, he looked up into the deformed god's unseen eyes, into true darkness, into the empty void of an undying thing and spoke. 
 
'Hello father.'
