The Lady’s Embrace

The man writhed in the sublime agony of the fever, slick with pearly beads of sweat glistening on his tortured visage. His gaze was empty and unfocused, searching restlessly for something in the distance of the poorly lit room. The veiled lady stood above him and chuckled slightly.
“My poor dear Will,” her voice a cold, ghastly whisper, “why do you torment yourself thustly? What is it you are trying to accomplish?”
The man turned his gaze towards her slender figure, trying and to recognize face beneath the veil.
“I… where’s… Layla…” he muttered, in the firm grip of delirium.
“She’s not here, Will. She never was.”
“You… lie…” Will accused her, “she… was… right..ther…” he said pointing towards an empty spot. “I… heard… her… voice…” he caughed and for a moment his eyes rolled back into his skull. The veiled lady enjoyed his suffering immensly. She loomed over his prone form on the bed and smiled with an ugly smile behind the dark veil.
“Aah yes, her voice. The damned echo that keeps me apart from you, my dear Will. How I loathe it,” she screamed in jealous rage and clenched her fist above him, “how I wish to throttle the life out the throat which births it!”
She was furious, mad with rage and her eyes burned with the red of arterial blood, like twin firestorms beneath the veil. It was Will’s turn to laugh but he could only manage  a rictus grin. Continue reading

The Blackwinged Butcher

The hulking giant walked inside the Sanctum where Cybel ministered to his blades, ‘Solace’ and ‘Absolution’. Her pale delicate hands cleaned and oiled the monomolecular edges with the attention a mother would give to her newborn children. Her Master, the supreme commander of the ship and the leader of The Covenant was mighty sight to behold. Clad in the crimson Heresy pattern Power Armor with his right arm and shoulder-pad painted in midnight black he strode with purpose. Behind him, a pair of black wings adorned his jump pack in remembrance of his long lost father. Marks of his former legion adorned his left shoulder-pad while the accursed mark of the Messiah of Blood was forged in bronze on his right shoulder-pad. Cybel had the misfortune to serve the followers of the Messiah of Blood and they were indeed terrifying but He was different. His visage resembled that of His father’s image painted on the murals of the Sanctum, his long golden hair gently falling over his unblemished face, and eyes as green as the jade visor lenses in his helm. A more naive soul would see innocence, beneficence even, in their depths.

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The Flood

In that fateful midnight hour,
The dam cracks slowly, inexorably,
And dies the only flower,
That can prevent the catastrophe,
The rusty bronze bells toll to no avail

Rumbles and churns the thing behind,
the dam which should never be allowed,
To see the light of day, it has to be confined,
It senses the freedom, and it screams aloud,
Panicked eyes shift rapidly, hiding behind a veil.

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The Red Haze

In the lightless depths of the soul he lies,
The everlasting, horrible, ravenous beast,
With crimson eyes he stares at the world,
Growling impatiently for the next bloody feast,
His name, The Red Haze

 

 He is a slave to his insatiable hunger,
For the rich, crimson liquid, flowing through a man’s veins
Deprive him, and he lunges at you in raging anger,
He rips and shreds through the veil of reason,
Trying to escape the red maze,

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