What Kind Of Tragedy Are You?

what kind of tragedy are you?

wrong place, wrong time

it shouldn’t have been you. oh my love, you should have lived. if only. if only you had made a right instead of a left. if only your friend hadn’t had so much to drink. if only it hadn’t rained last night. then everything would be fine. a butterfly could have flapped its wings at another time and you would have have been fine. safety was so close, and yet so far. but alas, the stars just had to align.

Seriously?!?

If you think you could beat this woman in a quickdraw & accuracy in any of her verses;

I have news for you.

A city was built in the sunkissed desert. Karma, seemingly eternally frozen in time only watched from her ebony mare as it grew, more vibrant, loud, populated, suffocating in crime. Witnessing its advancing was among her most surreal experiences. Her own realm, the unforgiving heated sandy wastelands were getting smaller, the city's thrum reaching far. With the ever growing crime rate more hastily or not even buried dead littered the outskirts.

Karma setting a foot in this town was a rarity, especially this deep but the shadows kept whispering, urging her to come. She had left Villám long before entering, thankfully the intelligent horse understood well why she had to stay behind.

The gunfighter's clothing barely changed throughout centuries, only she allowed more prominent metal chain fringes on her jacket, the decorations chiming with a soft finality with each move. The shadows led her to a museum, by then she also could feel it. Not sparing much attention to the displays nor the people; few, probably around closing time, that was good. She didn't know yet what would happen.

The aura was akin to a harsh push when she sensed it full force. Close, not too much but already enough for her eyes to morph even more. Her stainless steel heels a steady thunder of something unavoidable approaching.

Burgundy was a stark contrast against her bone white hair and skin, the chain fringes giving one final clink as she stopped at the entrance.

“This shithole is your doing.”

A statement bold and sure, the modern disguise of the demon incapable of fooling her senses. Poison eyes flicked to the criminal decorated wall.

“Along with other deeds indirectly leading to deaths of the undeserving.”

Sin City

Every now and then, Astaroth liked to don a human disguise and take a vacation to the surface. During these vacations, he would travel the world, checking in on the various cults that worshipped him, before settling in one spot for a few days and simply enjoying himself. He never stayed up for too long, lest anyone on Earth or up in Heaven figure out who he was.

A popular spot for him was Las Vegas, the city that gave him the idea to open a casino himself. He loved this city, so full of sin and vice, a true demon's paradise. So many casinos to see, so many other attractions, he never felt like he gave himself enough time for anything.

Today he was at the Mob Museum, somewhere he'd been meaning to visit for many years now. More than a few crime lords whose reach extended to Las Vegas had their blessing from Astaroth; his ability to lead men to treasure was a powerful one, and so often led people here. The blue-haired disguised human was grinning as he browsed the Wall of Mobsters, recognizing plenty of the photographs on the wall, some from reputation, some from meeting them personally.

@deathshadowed

Do you guys know that one scene

Which God chooses you?

Rot, the God of What Remains

She has mushrooms growing between her gnarled fingers, her skin blackened and loose from her body. Every candle gutters and dies as her dark mass pools beneath you. When she rises, it is with the odour of the swamps. Her eye sockets are empty, yet still her gaze rakes through your very soul. "Oh, my dear." Her muddy voice bubbles and froths. "I call you to a harsh life. They will hate you for what you are. Death-keeper. Worm-eaten. Maggot-crawler. But even the gods die." She raises a filth-ridden finger to your forehead and paints her mark - a dirt streak, right to left, cold and clammy against your skin. "Life brings death, and death brings decay. Natural as the fallowing of the fields." Her mouth is a black pit, toothless yet still grinning. You feel your skin growing cold, clammy; tears break out across your skin, yellowed bone poking through, but there is no pain. Just a muddy dampness. "Ssh," she says, holding her finger to your lips. "You are mine, now."