Date: 12-24-2023
Tags: The King in Yellow, The Gold Liquid
Derived from a blade so ill-conceived it makes the heavens and its residents shudder with the novelty of mortality. The centroid of the mechanism stretches up into the darkness for thousands of feet. A flagpole to death, waving in the face of a shattered sky. An ugly, inverted, pile of copper and steel plates, of runes and hate. It comes to its epicenter above a slab of cracked marble, it is incomplete. Where is the blade?ā¦ Where is the anathema? Oh, I hold itā¦ No, where is all our lives, all my loveā¦ She is on the slab, a corpse. I am not whole. Worms, they surround me, with their rippling white skin. They shuffle away, shunning my pain. I am wounded. My soul leaks out faster than my bloodā¦ The worms anger me. They did this. They took her from me! I am thirsty, I could drink a whole cityā¦ No, No, No! I led her, here I told her we could stop this, No, No, No. I pick the detestable thing up, it wriggles with displeasure, a drop in the ocean >to my anger, to my thirst. I hold it over my mouth and wring it out. The mercurial liquid, I hate its taste. >I want more. I have no mouth. A thirst to never be quenched, the curse of her love, she saved me. SHE KILLED ME! She spared meā¦ This is what I must become. This is my new strength. My new hate. I will destroy those above and below for what they made me do to herā¦ For what they made her do to meā¦ No death is truer than the one I bring. I am the tattered king.