Fiamma Couple

Description

Ah, the Hallowed Flame!

Bringer of warmth, beacon of light, wellspring of life.
It dances, golden and weightless, a splendor divine—
Yet in its beauty lies peril, in its glow, the whisper of doom.

To gaze upon it, to yearn yet never touch—such is our sacred trial.
A trial fated to end in failure, for what moth resists the fire?
Yet through its devouring grace, we shall be made pure.

What lies beyond its glow? A realm of ashen cold,
where the formless horrors slumber deep.
Terrors so dreadful, their names are naught but silence.

The Guardian stands, a bastion unyielding,
his form hewn from duty, his will a blade of iron.
He watches, ever steadfast—yet can stone withstand the tide?
Can even the mightiest bulwark endure the flame’s relentless call?

The Witch, wreathed in shadow and embers,
dances upon the precipice, hands aglow with stolen fire.
She knows the price, the hunger of the blaze—
but what is wisdom to one who has tasted divinity?
No path remains but forward, no fate but the burning.

The Flamekeeper, cloaked in devotion, walks the path unshaken.
His hands bear gifts of flesh and soul, tributes to the hungering light.
Is it knowledge that keeps him whole,
some secret wisdom whispered in the embers?
Or is he but another fool, waiting for the flame to claim him?

The Sinner, frail and wretched, kneels in trembling reverence.
Burdened with desires, shackled by longing,
he lifts his gaze to the sacred fire, unworthy yet unrelenting.
He knows he shall burn.
And yet—
the thought fills his heart with rapture.

The Moth, resplendent in foolish yearning,
soars without fear, without doubt, without regret.
A moment’s flight, a breath of light—
then naught but ashes, drifting in the void.
Was the blaze worth the fall?

Burned by fire, reborn of cinders,
like the Phoenix, he rises anew.
Scorched, seared, forever marked—
yet in ruin, he finds triumph.

The Sage, draped in silence, waits in stillness,
his thoughts lost in the endless dance of flame.
He seeks the truth within its whispers—
but can wisdom grasp the untouchable?
Can mortal breath unveil the secrets of the inferno?
And shall he live long enough to see the answer?

The Empress, sovereign of the golden dawn,
queen of the heavens, mistress of the world.
Radiant and proud, she stands upon the brink—
for even a throne of stars is but kindling for the fire.
Sometimes, a kingdom falls with but a spark.

The Shaman, wild-eyed and wrathful,
clutches at the Flame with hands unworthy.
He would wield it, command it, make it kneel—
but how can one bend that which is unchained?
Madness guides him, folly blinds him.
He shall burn. And he shall be forgotten.

A kinght, once noble, now lost.
A warrior clad in steel, a blade heavy with sorrow.
He has strayed from the path,
his soul bartered for the cold embrace of darkness.
No longer a man, no longer a servant of the light—
but something else. A Beast.

The Doll, porcelain and frail,
a creature of silken whispers and hollow dreams.
She yielded with ease, surrendered without struggle,
and now lies bound in the grasp of the abyss.
Yet, absent will, she knows no suffering.

At the heart of the void, the Weaver of Shadows waits,
his hands weaving fate, his voice a murmur in the dark.
He watches those who have forsaken the Flame,
those who walk blind into the abyss.
They will not see, they will not know—
not even when he devours their souls.

Pics by @chambertincards