04-20-2018, 04:44 PM
god make me pay
like the devil i am
like the devil i am
Within the darkness of Sylva’s never-ending fire, he festers.
There is no wind to rustle the branches of the trees that protrude out over the still water of the dark lake, a somber silence filling the early morning. A mist, hauntingly white and thick, slowly moves in, shrouding the many rocks that line the river with its vaporous cloak. The sunlight begins to spill through the dense canopy of trees, mostly a mixture of thick spruces or thin, spindly branches of birch. The bite that the air brings seems to make the trees shiver in anticipation. The morning mist continues to grow and swirl, the steam and spray from the rushing river mingling with the evaporation. The sunlight is not strong enough to begin to burn away at the fog, as it would in the warmer seasons. It continues to hover over the bank and its whispering waters, as if drawn to the stillness and the darkness it holds.
A hunger gleams in his eyes, a hunger that has still gone unquenched, unsatisfied. It lingers within the abyss of his darkened eyes, forever flickering beneath the blackness. Forever a predator, constantly ravenous for power and control, to succumb his prey beneath a watery grave. Within him, it simmers and churns, meticulously lying in wait in the dark depths of his soul. In the dim light of the sun’s first light, where even the crickets have stopped chirping, an evergreen and pearl stallion stands in the stagnant water, staring down into the nothingness. His large, dark eyes into the blackness, as if he is under a spell, ears listening to the murmurs and hushed voices that call to him from the water’s depths. The lake croons to him; he can feel it pulling at his fetlocks, encouraging and beckoning him to swim to the darkest depths.
The yawning blackness from the mouth of the cave behind him pulls at his back, howling mournfully as a chilled wind shifts through the trees. Branches crack and moan in the brittle wind, the rustling of the leaves whispering hauntingly in the canopy.
The tides have changed in Beqanna, but Maugrim has not.
There is a new ruler here - one that relies on mirth and insanity, a growing need for chaos for the sake of chaos.
Maugrim is not one for chaos. But where chaos reigns, darkness grows.
It is darkness, not chaos, that the stallion craves.
There is no wind to rustle the branches of the trees that protrude out over the still water of the dark lake, a somber silence filling the early morning. A mist, hauntingly white and thick, slowly moves in, shrouding the many rocks that line the river with its vaporous cloak. The sunlight begins to spill through the dense canopy of trees, mostly a mixture of thick spruces or thin, spindly branches of birch. The bite that the air brings seems to make the trees shiver in anticipation. The morning mist continues to grow and swirl, the steam and spray from the rushing river mingling with the evaporation. The sunlight is not strong enough to begin to burn away at the fog, as it would in the warmer seasons. It continues to hover over the bank and its whispering waters, as if drawn to the stillness and the darkness it holds.
A hunger gleams in his eyes, a hunger that has still gone unquenched, unsatisfied. It lingers within the abyss of his darkened eyes, forever flickering beneath the blackness. Forever a predator, constantly ravenous for power and control, to succumb his prey beneath a watery grave. Within him, it simmers and churns, meticulously lying in wait in the dark depths of his soul. In the dim light of the sun’s first light, where even the crickets have stopped chirping, an evergreen and pearl stallion stands in the stagnant water, staring down into the nothingness. His large, dark eyes into the blackness, as if he is under a spell, ears listening to the murmurs and hushed voices that call to him from the water’s depths. The lake croons to him; he can feel it pulling at his fetlocks, encouraging and beckoning him to swim to the darkest depths.
The yawning blackness from the mouth of the cave behind him pulls at his back, howling mournfully as a chilled wind shifts through the trees. Branches crack and moan in the brittle wind, the rustling of the leaves whispering hauntingly in the canopy.
The tides have changed in Beqanna, but Maugrim has not.
There is a new ruler here - one that relies on mirth and insanity, a growing need for chaos for the sake of chaos.
Maugrim is not one for chaos. But where chaos reigns, darkness grows.
It is darkness, not chaos, that the stallion craves.
m a u g r i m.