01-28-2019, 08:27 AM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
We are all monsters in a way - some of us more than others. There is the appearance of a monster - something that you would look at and feel a cold and slick wave through your body (a fear, a revolution, a horror) - something created from the minds of gods, from the gifts of the fairies. There is the mind of a monster - a gelatinous and pulsing thing, riddled with ideas that only seek to destroy (murder, maim, mutiny) - something learned, taught, nature and nurtured. There is the heart of a monster - this is something most deadly; something that beats with a reason that not even you are sure of, this is something that cannot be changed - something born from the soul, that cannot be undone.
Pangea perishes. The canyons are carcasses, empty and rotting -- the slow flowing river nourishing none (save for the bloated bodies that drift and bump gently by). There is not a soul to hear the crying call of the cephalopod woman, save for Him. There are none that traverse the terminal plains of Pangea to adhere to her hark, save for Him. Carnage’s crown jewel has been laid to waste; a vapid wasteland that has become home to none except that fetid Plague, the magician, and His quarry.
His voice appears amidst the stretch of silence that aches across Pangea. “There are none who crawl here. Only I.” He is not surprised at your unique personification; He had felt the rumination of a kraken creature when He first came here; the very faded scent of brackish and brine, the echoes of sound once uttered- clickclacktink. He knew a creature once stirred here - something more mythological than equine; and you have not disappointed Him in your appearance.
He approaches, “Pangea has been lifeless for the last half year, Yidhra. I will change that.” The truth was an aching stagger; an empty hole had been here in Pangea since His return to Beqanna at the end of autumn. “I am Eight.. I will stand beside you here in Pangea as Archon. We will rebuild the vastness of the dark god’s design together.” Some monsters take without asking - some offer solace and a promise of synergy. It is up to the receiver to decide which unfurls.
Pangea perishes. The canyons are carcasses, empty and rotting -- the slow flowing river nourishing none (save for the bloated bodies that drift and bump gently by). There is not a soul to hear the crying call of the cephalopod woman, save for Him. There are none that traverse the terminal plains of Pangea to adhere to her hark, save for Him. Carnage’s crown jewel has been laid to waste; a vapid wasteland that has become home to none except that fetid Plague, the magician, and His quarry.
His voice appears amidst the stretch of silence that aches across Pangea. “There are none who crawl here. Only I.” He is not surprised at your unique personification; He had felt the rumination of a kraken creature when He first came here; the very faded scent of brackish and brine, the echoes of sound once uttered- clickclacktink. He knew a creature once stirred here - something more mythological than equine; and you have not disappointed Him in your appearance.
He approaches, “Pangea has been lifeless for the last half year, Yidhra. I will change that.” The truth was an aching stagger; an empty hole had been here in Pangea since His return to Beqanna at the end of autumn. “I am Eight.. I will stand beside you here in Pangea as Archon. We will rebuild the vastness of the dark god’s design together.” Some monsters take without asking - some offer solace and a promise of synergy. It is up to the receiver to decide which unfurls.
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in