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On nights like these, your form is most indistinct.
Breathing in the chilly evening air, you watch, as you usually do, unseen, unknown and untouchable. But then for such a vague thing, watching is all that is possible. Even a world such as this rich in mystery as it is, can barely tolerate your essence.
How pitiful to be spurned by one's homeland. High is the moon, bright and with a gaze almost as penetrating as your own. The blue moonlight casts a gentle spell over fields of wheat far too bewitched to ever be harvested, you've yearned to taste it once more, but even blood is denied to you now.
Ragged scarecrows in robes of feather they gave fear dance through stalks, leaving mystic furrows in the meadow. Such joyful mannikins, though the sacrifices they slit from crown to navel are considerably less cheerful about this night's activities.
Really knowing these meadows, these fakemen are quite daring, scrawling their scribbles and spilling blood here in your old haunting grounds that you were once so rudely evicted from. Why if they aren't careful, rather than whatever dark being they serve, they could attract the attention of something far more beyond understanding.
Something like you.
What a wonderful chance to put your roots down, to once again feel the true embrace of your beloved soil, to no longer be so harshly foreign to home.
The only trouble is deciding what to encroach...
>He, slit from crown to navel of scales and slow blood, not fully dead, and filled with grudge
>She, slit from crown to navel of supple flesh and lusting blood, not fully dead, and filled with despair
>It, dancing and joyous, bloodless and lifeless but yet it moves.
>Split blood congeal thy raiment, drink deep and take form.
>Bewitched wheat weave thy raiment, blossom and take form.
>Moon's light cast they raiment, reveal and take form.
>From chaos of thought, another path (write in)
Breathing in the chilly evening air, you watch, as you usually do, unseen, unknown and untouchable. But then for such a vague thing, watching is all that is possible. Even a world such as this rich in mystery as it is, can barely tolerate your essence.
How pitiful to be spurned by one's homeland. High is the moon, bright and with a gaze almost as penetrating as your own. The blue moonlight casts a gentle spell over fields of wheat far too bewitched to ever be harvested, you've yearned to taste it once more, but even blood is denied to you now.
Ragged scarecrows in robes of feather they gave fear dance through stalks, leaving mystic furrows in the meadow. Such joyful mannikins, though the sacrifices they slit from crown to navel are considerably less cheerful about this night's activities.
Really knowing these meadows, these fakemen are quite daring, scrawling their scribbles and spilling blood here in your old haunting grounds that you were once so rudely evicted from. Why if they aren't careful, rather than whatever dark being they serve, they could attract the attention of something far more beyond understanding.
Something like you.
What a wonderful chance to put your roots down, to once again feel the true embrace of your beloved soil, to no longer be so harshly foreign to home.
The only trouble is deciding what to encroach...
>He, slit from crown to navel of scales and slow blood, not fully dead, and filled with grudge
>She, slit from crown to navel of supple flesh and lusting blood, not fully dead, and filled with despair
>It, dancing and joyous, bloodless and lifeless but yet it moves.
>Split blood congeal thy raiment, drink deep and take form.
>Bewitched wheat weave thy raiment, blossom and take form.
>Moon's light cast they raiment, reveal and take form.
>From chaos of thought, another path (write in)
