Strike The Cannon, Man The Missile, Sharpen The Knives, Hail The Arrow

Strike the Cannon, man the Missile, sharpen the knives, hail the arrow

Stricken down into Hell, bodies pile and spill, blood deluges to be spilt, women to whore, boys to take from fathers, daughters stolen from crying mothers

Thy come thy fire, fire burn’ in me

Claws and teeth barred, Death blesses me, skin bone pale and hair night black in the night

Whisper to me, guide my blades, bullets, and bombs

Come I do, the Devil himself

Come I do, a Nightmare unending

The woman is afraid.

Her breath is erratic and heavy, glowing eyes wide with terror like frightened moons. Blue-black hair, wild and long, whips back and forth, this way, that way, as she struggles.

The snare holds her in a contorted vice. I can just barely see dark, fresh blood against her pale skin in the moonlight. Grievous wounds for anyone ordinary.

She is anything but ordinary.

Each footstep I take is cautious. Hands spread and raised, eyes lowered, trying to maintain even breath even as my heartbeat thunders.

Slowly.

She struggles, harder, clawing at unforgiving metal and damp earth.

I have to help.

My hands pull at chains, toothy hooks. Twine sharp as a blade cuts at the skin of my hands. Metallic teeth glinting in darkness.

Pull.

Push.

Twist.

Break.

The snare gives in with a crack, collapsing into a deflated heap, and my eyes barely register impossible motion as the captive leaps past me faster than any mortal human could imagine. I’m alone in the dark under endless stars and canvas black night, warm blood on my fingers, mystery in my mind deep as the sea.

I turn, stand—

From the darkness peer eyes bright as pale moons.

A hand reaches out, gentle and ferocious at once, inviting in friendship just as much as challenge.

I take it.

Been painting some cool models for a custom army of wetland dinosaurs!

Helluva job. Hoping to do this well when I do banners for my Marshland Carnivores.

I know no one here follows me for or particularly cares about D&D minis but LOOK at this SKIRT I painted today

Teeth at my throat, fingers in my hair. A voice chill as the winter we’re in, every breath and gasp and pleasurable sound we make turning the air steaming.

Hissed encouragement, the pulse and roar of blood, fingertips hot as flames.

Words and sentences vaporized, coherent thoughts obliterated, my mind sparking, dying, lost in each ravenous entanglement.

The snow is everywhere, frigid, beautiful. Bare trees claw up at the endlessly dark night, and the stars watch us with envy, feeling each motion, each buildup of pressure, each erupting release.

The sky turns. The Moon soars.

Teeth at my throat, fingers in my hair.

It never ends.

Do people actually read the shit I say? Or did I just imagine all of you?