snake skeleton in ouroboros position
snake skeleton in ouroboros position
She’s listening to you. Good. An audience is always appreciated. You grin once more, teeth spread across the sky, the buildings, etched in to the minds of those baring witness to you. Amusement causes you to crackle and hiss more as well.
THE RULES— HERE— ARE DIF—FERENT—.
HAVE— YOU NOT— NOTICED—?
You gesture with spiked cricket legs translucent wings under protective shells glossy carapace appendages at the scene about you, at the entire universe, world seen and unseen. Hushed murmurers echo your movements, whisper harsh truths and fantastic lies.
THE GAME— HAS STARTED— ALREADY— BUT NOT— THE SESSION—.
THERE ARE— NO— QUEST BEDS—. THEY DREAM— WHILE AWAKE— THEY HAVE— NO BOUNDARIES— AS LONG AS— THEY CAN— FIND— WHO THEY ARE— WHILE THEY— DREAM—.
DYING— AND DREAMING— ARE VERY— SIMILAR—. BOTH LEAD TO— NEW FRONTIERS—. THE MEDIUMS—. THOSE WILL— TAKE CARE OF— THEM— NURTURE THEM—.
(This, you think within the you that is the you at the core of yourself, is the goddamn fucking problem with taking on The Black Crown. Have to be asslicking cryptic as shit.)
The Seer’s hesitance irritates you, makes you grind your teeth like tombstones against one another during an earthquake. If you had a less symbolic form you’d reach out and shake her.
BITE— YOUR TONGUE—!
YOUR FEAR— OF FAILURE— SHACKLES YOU—. IT WILL— PARALYZE YOU— AND— YOU WILL— LOSE— YOUR CHANCE.
HE’S ALREADY— DEAD—. HOW BADLY— COULD YOU POSSIBLY— FUCK UP—?
Gallows humor with the weeping hangwoman. How ironic.
You too redirect your attention to Deuce— no, he’s not Deuce now. He’s something much older with a different purpose, filled with space and the stars of his ancestors, driven by genetic instinct. Perfectly breed for this duty. Son of those infatuated by death, rebirth, mirth and rage.
Child of Saturn.
Bard carvingsinging the Dirge of passage into his palebond’s fleshbonessoul.
(You’re no father yourself, a twisted paternal figure at best, but you cannot help but to feel… proud.)
YES— HE KNOWS— THE WAY— TO PROSPIT— AND— BEYOND—.
TAKE UP— THE SHOVEL— THE PIPE— AND STRIKE OUT— THE PATH—.
Corpse of a frozen Soviet soldier used as a road sign.
The figurehead loses his head, fails to be a worthy challenge. (But you knew he would. Still you cannot help but be mildly disappointed.)
Chaos. Everything is in total disarray.
You feed off of this like a glutton, a content flesh eating beetle inside a cadaver, writhe gleefully in this reality you have made.
However, the part of you that is Spades Slick pushes through with some lucid clearness, and heaves a heavy, groaning sigh. Everyone scrambles to lock in combat or retribution, hectic movement everywhere, bugs clamoring for attention. He who had your focus before has been felled, but another has picked up Gungnir and now she who charges at you has your irritated attention, and with her enters Deuce, angry and confused. You hiss.
Eye narrow, you frown as one blow lands, metal cracking on tinted fiberglass, threatening to crack and break through, dispel you the nightmare. You will not allow another blow to mar you.
SIGHTLESS SEER— YOU ARE— BLINDED— BY YOUR OWN EMOTIONS— CONSTANTLY.
You rear back, and up, encase yourself, the tealbloodbrownblood, the body of her deceased lover, and the indigo monsterboy.
You must be heard.
> Glory to Derse.
YOU— GIVE UP TOO SO—ON WHEN THERE IS— HOPE—.
AND LINGER— ON WHAT CAN’T— BE SAVED—.
YOU— HAVE PLAYED— THIS GAME— BEFORE—. YOU— OF ALL— SHOULD KNOW THIS— IS— NOT OVER—.
> Glory to Prospit.
You motion with one of your many armlegsclaws to the rapidly cooling body.
LAY DOWN— THE WEAPON AND SHOW HIM— THE WAY. GUIDE HIM— ON THE PATH—.
> Glory to the Dreamers.
HE CAN BE— A GOD YET—.
Type: Serifa 65
It’ll be fun, they said.