- Joined
- May 24, 2020
- Messages
- 303
- Reaction score
- 916
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- Age
- 30
In the cold evening light, the clouds outstretched their whispy arms like a child, letting the earth kiss their feet as they licked their way into the corners, alleyways, and every Nook and Cranny... The fog, though bitter, possessed synthetic aridity of eccentric summers wherever the wingéd gentlewoman should trek. Across such a Nook & Cranny, within the tranquil gardens, she gathered the fiends of the twilight to perform their acts of insurgency and revolt.
Every single piece of flora, from every little bud to every great casuarina, it all began... coagulating, congealing, wilted in a drunken stupor as it tippled on the Void essences, flowing gracefully like velvet twilight from their hands. Bereaved of natural tones, every little floret now occupied an uncanny and disturbing shade of great malady, sepulchred in such pomp they now sprawl like a patient etherized on a table, corrupted by the fastidious hands of their Murderous Mother.
As thy easy numbers flow, they also serve who only stand and wait. The wanton birds of the sky dip down to observe the heart of Regalia, as black and foul as the flora of the once attractive garden.
———
Time future and time past do correlate indeed. However, their differences accentuate their charm as well as their equilibrium. Time future and time past are both perhaps present now, and if all time is ever-present, all time is unredeemable. Anyone who chooses to look back in bitter aftertaste is a fool, for there are much worse things, yes, worse things indeed.
You engage in chronological snobbery, scoffing and turning a blind eye to those who came before you. Look now, children, for I come before you, and I shall expire after you, if ever at all. People come here to die. I have come to change that. You fetter by the eye of the law, a law which built up from a power complex who knew no good. Surely we know no good either, but we embrace this fact. To hide in your evil amongst the bushes, pulling the wool over your eyes and convincing yourself and others of your "just" actions shall result in nothing but your own demise, and embarrassment, and ultimate failure. Evil knows of no stranger, and I would fain introduce him to such of they existed.
You think you can so effortlessly mock my presence, the propinquity of those under me and around me. Mock now, and all you like. Make it plentiful, make it loud, make it clear, for those who chide their superiors blaspheme against the ones above them. Get it out of the way so that wrath may have a clear path. We haven't the time for games anymore, my dears. We are in the thick of Fall, the trees are naked, and your leaves have shed to reveal your true natures. To attempt to hide from it is pure halfwitted stupidity. Winter shall come upon us soon, a season of carnage.
Even the Natural Order recognizes their superiors, as they, wilted, bow down in trepidation, hindered at the roots by utter fear. Fear is the notion that strikes the heart of man.
The floweret grows beautifully on the earth, and for what? Only to wilt away and die. We think of ourselves so highly as to even compare -- your life to a Rose or mine to the Poet's Jasmine, and my children's to the Lillies on the Valley. But you think wrong. To think of yourself so highly... to compare... The difference between Humanity and a flower is we possess no such beauty, oh no, we are rotten, corrupted in our evil nature that buries us beneath the demolished sepulchre of inevitable rot. For every leaf you leave unturned, there is a humble hermitage of polite pests and considerate cocoons of careful butterflies.
Take heed to my words and do not pass me by, lest you miss one of two things: an opportunity, or a penalty. The choice is yours. No, we must not forget times past. But let us turn our focus to time future and our adversaries. A slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men — dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell. But rest assured, I know thee well. Now the question stands: do you know of I?
Mother Wymarc
Desprincess of the Athanasia Scion
Lady of the Gallovian caves
Blossom of the Gaping Gloom
Every single piece of flora, from every little bud to every great casuarina, it all began... coagulating, congealing, wilted in a drunken stupor as it tippled on the Void essences, flowing gracefully like velvet twilight from their hands. Bereaved of natural tones, every little floret now occupied an uncanny and disturbing shade of great malady, sepulchred in such pomp they now sprawl like a patient etherized on a table, corrupted by the fastidious hands of their Murderous Mother.
As thy easy numbers flow, they also serve who only stand and wait. The wanton birds of the sky dip down to observe the heart of Regalia, as black and foul as the flora of the once attractive garden.
———
Time future and time past do correlate indeed. However, their differences accentuate their charm as well as their equilibrium. Time future and time past are both perhaps present now, and if all time is ever-present, all time is unredeemable. Anyone who chooses to look back in bitter aftertaste is a fool, for there are much worse things, yes, worse things indeed.
You engage in chronological snobbery, scoffing and turning a blind eye to those who came before you. Look now, children, for I come before you, and I shall expire after you, if ever at all. People come here to die. I have come to change that. You fetter by the eye of the law, a law which built up from a power complex who knew no good. Surely we know no good either, but we embrace this fact. To hide in your evil amongst the bushes, pulling the wool over your eyes and convincing yourself and others of your "just" actions shall result in nothing but your own demise, and embarrassment, and ultimate failure. Evil knows of no stranger, and I would fain introduce him to such of they existed.
You think you can so effortlessly mock my presence, the propinquity of those under me and around me. Mock now, and all you like. Make it plentiful, make it loud, make it clear, for those who chide their superiors blaspheme against the ones above them. Get it out of the way so that wrath may have a clear path. We haven't the time for games anymore, my dears. We are in the thick of Fall, the trees are naked, and your leaves have shed to reveal your true natures. To attempt to hide from it is pure halfwitted stupidity. Winter shall come upon us soon, a season of carnage.
Even the Natural Order recognizes their superiors, as they, wilted, bow down in trepidation, hindered at the roots by utter fear. Fear is the notion that strikes the heart of man.
The floweret grows beautifully on the earth, and for what? Only to wilt away and die. We think of ourselves so highly as to even compare -- your life to a Rose or mine to the Poet's Jasmine, and my children's to the Lillies on the Valley. But you think wrong. To think of yourself so highly... to compare... The difference between Humanity and a flower is we possess no such beauty, oh no, we are rotten, corrupted in our evil nature that buries us beneath the demolished sepulchre of inevitable rot. For every leaf you leave unturned, there is a humble hermitage of polite pests and considerate cocoons of careful butterflies.
Take heed to my words and do not pass me by, lest you miss one of two things: an opportunity, or a penalty. The choice is yours. No, we must not forget times past. But let us turn our focus to time future and our adversaries. A slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men — dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell. But rest assured, I know thee well. Now the question stands: do you know of I?
Mother Wymarc
Desprincess of the Athanasia Scion
Lady of the Gallovian caves
Blossom of the Gaping Gloom
