There was blood and bone in that barren room what felt like a battlefield. It was a rebirthing room, angry with the contractions of a woman in labor.
The hotness of her was searing to the touch, instantly evaporating all forms of disillusion and would allow for nothing but cold fact. The methodical touch like one would graze wood or stone was all I could give her. But give to her I did.
My hands worked over her like an experienced man deflowering a virgin bride, for that was what she was to me, now and ever more. She was my bride sealed by that of blood and unity; the very beat of her heart was the throbbing of my seed filling her like a womb.
Broken was she, that I set her a-right the best I could. A fickle game that had need of the poison coursing her veins. It was the clock by which I worked.
On the verge of death I managed to salvage her life, while stripping the last of her dignity away in one fell swoop. Although at that very time I could not admire her shapely body, I knew that in hindsight when I saw her lying there she would not be broken and bloodied, but the harbinger of sensuality, accepting me with her breasts as they heave with exhilaration, hips wide and wonderful for bearing a man as well as child. The fiery union of her exalting sweetness a mixture that no man could resist. I knew that in hindsight, should I view her complete and whole and ready, my loins would burn like tomorrow set afire.
The Darkness had tainted me, for I was not always so callous and thoughtless to a woman and my desire for her. While my love thought myself impure, I danced the gray and melted the blackness with my infidelity, even if it were only in thought.
Thoughts pervade; salacious and infectious. This known to men like me...if ever there were any.
Back to thought, I moved like a whisper on a dream through her shrouded perception of life. When weak and dying, there were always regrets and life unlived. I knew that and that was the curse I knew that was bestowed upon me from that omnipotent whirlwind of Darkness. I could only imagine what other damage had been caused me by my curiosity that was not sated.
Exhaustion took me then, and as she slept, I turned away with a callous indifference. I could not let myself even admire a life saved, because work must be continued and she was now incapacitated, dead to the whispers that were out and about, needing to be harvested.
There was only one other who should be given the right to managing her care, and this skrell of haloed horns was whom I sought. Her with her single-point trident and unwavering ignorance and devotion. A psychopath incorporated into the path of the gods, who even to this day I am uncertain as if they care naught for the havoc wreaked by the Ebon Plague.
I paced well my passage to Milford, leaving alone the living dead, trying to focus on bringing solitude to her for I could not give her that when my own body denied me peace. I could no longer look at her as just a child shroud in cloak and concealed from me. I had seen her naked and I will see her mend; when those two combine I know the blasphemy will be mine to bear; my heart upon my sleeve.
The third mistake I made that night was the fire in my loins.
The outpost empty and vague, a decrepit bastion of armed solitude, reminding me of a promise I made at the quotation of another: I will be the war that protects you.
She was not there, this Zealot of the Fields. She was not there when she was needed, and I curse her name, condemning her to the shallowness that fermented within the rotting core of this haven.
So I find solitude where I can; the demons and wolves leave me be as my memories and thoughts brood and churn. They are afraid, as they should be. Even I am not left without the mocking laughter of the unvoiced Gods as their blessings condemn.
So I find solitude where I can; the sun of my light palpitated like a heart, bright and then dimmer than before.
So I find myself before the spearing tip of the Darkness that had yawned and swallowed me. I watch its veins of blood and heat throb through the smoky blackness, ominous and inviting in a way that would attract a mortal with its maliciousness.
I do not find myself daunted by the realization that men and all other races were violent and sloth to begin with, because the gods could do only as they could, making us in their own image. The fact that they begged for loyalty and faith and perfection, while they themselves spread the seeds of arrogance and self-worship was not a paradox, it was a contradiction.
A hypocrisy.
Too many times I had stood on the cusp of the precipice and screamed for them to answer me. What was to be deified as sacred was nothing more than a rotten mold cast upon the earth, told to be the bread of the gods. Why separate themselves when they knew full well their disease and lies, and that they all were forged from the mold of trickery and deceit.
The Eight are One.
I said this to the portal crawling over the ground like the dead pulling itself from the grave. Clawing. Clawing.
There was blood upon the ground nearby. I could see it glittering like diamond-encrusted rubies in the night's poor light, when the red moon kissed the sky in the Witching Hour. I paid no heed knowing that people of all walks of life were intrigued by what the Darkness held. The only problem was that they wanted to know but could not tolerate the pain.
I am not a man of combative prowess, yet I stood the wrath of it for much longer than any other. I am the One. But again, like the gods I knew that that was a double-edged sword. My life was destroying itself piece by claw-raked piece. And that was only the surface of it.
Something tickled at my senses. I looked to the blood again and became the leopard, tracking down its passage, like moving forward, back in Time.
Through the fields I hunted, untouched by demon and man and beast alike. I was a child of the Night, as I always had been. I am the Walaffai, the Whisper Shaker, knowing a fly upon my web through all senses simultaneously.
I was brooding, cold and methodical. I was being me in all my splendor and glory, a Dark Templar of an onerous nature. Reap what had been sown.
That was until I saw the rose on the abandoned campground earth, forlorn and drenched in fresh blood.
The sun of my light quivered and imploded.
The hotness of her was searing to the touch, instantly evaporating all forms of disillusion and would allow for nothing but cold fact. The methodical touch like one would graze wood or stone was all I could give her. But give to her I did.
My hands worked over her like an experienced man deflowering a virgin bride, for that was what she was to me, now and ever more. She was my bride sealed by that of blood and unity; the very beat of her heart was the throbbing of my seed filling her like a womb.
Broken was she, that I set her a-right the best I could. A fickle game that had need of the poison coursing her veins. It was the clock by which I worked.
On the verge of death I managed to salvage her life, while stripping the last of her dignity away in one fell swoop. Although at that very time I could not admire her shapely body, I knew that in hindsight when I saw her lying there she would not be broken and bloodied, but the harbinger of sensuality, accepting me with her breasts as they heave with exhilaration, hips wide and wonderful for bearing a man as well as child. The fiery union of her exalting sweetness a mixture that no man could resist. I knew that in hindsight, should I view her complete and whole and ready, my loins would burn like tomorrow set afire.
The Darkness had tainted me, for I was not always so callous and thoughtless to a woman and my desire for her. While my love thought myself impure, I danced the gray and melted the blackness with my infidelity, even if it were only in thought.
Thoughts pervade; salacious and infectious. This known to men like me...if ever there were any.
Back to thought, I moved like a whisper on a dream through her shrouded perception of life. When weak and dying, there were always regrets and life unlived. I knew that and that was the curse I knew that was bestowed upon me from that omnipotent whirlwind of Darkness. I could only imagine what other damage had been caused me by my curiosity that was not sated.
Exhaustion took me then, and as she slept, I turned away with a callous indifference. I could not let myself even admire a life saved, because work must be continued and she was now incapacitated, dead to the whispers that were out and about, needing to be harvested.
There was only one other who should be given the right to managing her care, and this skrell of haloed horns was whom I sought. Her with her single-point trident and unwavering ignorance and devotion. A psychopath incorporated into the path of the gods, who even to this day I am uncertain as if they care naught for the havoc wreaked by the Ebon Plague.
I paced well my passage to Milford, leaving alone the living dead, trying to focus on bringing solitude to her for I could not give her that when my own body denied me peace. I could no longer look at her as just a child shroud in cloak and concealed from me. I had seen her naked and I will see her mend; when those two combine I know the blasphemy will be mine to bear; my heart upon my sleeve.
The third mistake I made that night was the fire in my loins.
The outpost empty and vague, a decrepit bastion of armed solitude, reminding me of a promise I made at the quotation of another: I will be the war that protects you.
She was not there, this Zealot of the Fields. She was not there when she was needed, and I curse her name, condemning her to the shallowness that fermented within the rotting core of this haven.
So I find solitude where I can; the demons and wolves leave me be as my memories and thoughts brood and churn. They are afraid, as they should be. Even I am not left without the mocking laughter of the unvoiced Gods as their blessings condemn.
So I find solitude where I can; the sun of my light palpitated like a heart, bright and then dimmer than before.
So I find myself before the spearing tip of the Darkness that had yawned and swallowed me. I watch its veins of blood and heat throb through the smoky blackness, ominous and inviting in a way that would attract a mortal with its maliciousness.
I do not find myself daunted by the realization that men and all other races were violent and sloth to begin with, because the gods could do only as they could, making us in their own image. The fact that they begged for loyalty and faith and perfection, while they themselves spread the seeds of arrogance and self-worship was not a paradox, it was a contradiction.
A hypocrisy.
Too many times I had stood on the cusp of the precipice and screamed for them to answer me. What was to be deified as sacred was nothing more than a rotten mold cast upon the earth, told to be the bread of the gods. Why separate themselves when they knew full well their disease and lies, and that they all were forged from the mold of trickery and deceit.
The Eight are One.
I said this to the portal crawling over the ground like the dead pulling itself from the grave. Clawing. Clawing.
There was blood upon the ground nearby. I could see it glittering like diamond-encrusted rubies in the night's poor light, when the red moon kissed the sky in the Witching Hour. I paid no heed knowing that people of all walks of life were intrigued by what the Darkness held. The only problem was that they wanted to know but could not tolerate the pain.
I am not a man of combative prowess, yet I stood the wrath of it for much longer than any other. I am the One. But again, like the gods I knew that that was a double-edged sword. My life was destroying itself piece by claw-raked piece. And that was only the surface of it.
Something tickled at my senses. I looked to the blood again and became the leopard, tracking down its passage, like moving forward, back in Time.
Through the fields I hunted, untouched by demon and man and beast alike. I was a child of the Night, as I always had been. I am the Walaffai, the Whisper Shaker, knowing a fly upon my web through all senses simultaneously.
I was brooding, cold and methodical. I was being me in all my splendor and glory, a Dark Templar of an onerous nature. Reap what had been sown.
That was until I saw the rose on the abandoned campground earth, forlorn and drenched in fresh blood.
The sun of my light quivered and imploded.
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