EME ABỤỌ

The Ihojoo; The Vile

The dark side of humanity amplified to its most malevolent aspect; men and women baptized in the murky waters of Styx, stowaways on Charon's boat. While the weak, the Adighike, are humans who have succumbed to animalistic instincts, the Ihojoo opened themselves to impure urges that plague humanity.

They are vile, devout followers of the Vices; manmade demons whose sole duty is to damn a pitiful soul to greater and darker depravity.

Their psyches were gaping pits that sees one to the Abyss, to the lair of the damned Apollyon. They seek to undo the work of the Anointed Saviour, to defile the sacred creations of the Most Holy One. They hold the leashes of the human fool-hounds, leading them on like hunting dogs to the lines of pious warriors who were the salt eager to ebb their canker. The Ihojoo were an expanding gangrene of supernatural impurity and hellish associations. A malignant cancer seeking to completely erode sanctified organs in soul-filth.

The pious warriors stood as an antiseptic to the spread of Abbadon's influence. A disease seeking to bring soul-death to the children of Ala. The vile are blasphemous, hateful, and proud apostates who sow despair wherever and whenever they can.

There were circles in the Vices of the Ihojoo, they marched towards battle in their diabolical formations. The seven circles of the deadly vices, a day for each practice for their profane rituals. They bore colourful banners of their wicked glory, depicting their reverence and love for infernal deities.

The corrupt purple of the Vain, marching to war in their garish gold, silver and gemmed armour, weapons and battle-raiment proclaimed themselves gods upon their fellow men; kings of the jungles of Hell.

They roared their vainglory and cruelty alongside their pride.

The bitter green of Envy, their white-hot hate an aura about them as they charged on for war. They would see the gifted suffer as they had, they should be no reason for their foes to be treated better than they and so they marched lend the righteous their pain and suffering. 

The blood-red of Wrath, hate without bounds, fury with no restraint, a thirst of blood ceaselessly in need of slaking; blood-mad and inhumane in demeanor, they hunt the meek in the day and haunt the nights of the oppressed.

And so it went on, the death parade of an evil horde of darkness marching to meet their foes in combat. The lazy grey of Sloth and their trudging war-machines; the greedy bleak of Avarice and their want for all glory that could be had in the conflict; the gluttonous sick brown of Gluttony and their many insatiable thirsts and hungers; the deep lecherous pink of Lust and the debauch-soldiers of twisted hypersexuality.

Prayers beseeching the heavenly choir of virtues could be heard from the lips of the Athleta Christi, they would need all the help they could get in this pale reenactment of the war once fought in the Heavens.