They say when you’re a king, Sometimes the best way to rule Is that of an iron fist. But he knows better. Understands. Toss yourself from your throne, And you come to realize that all the faults Were your own. In that, there is power. The understanding of the self, of whatever lies beneath, In his body, both sides carry something else. So the next time he has to put on his crown, The weight of the boom-clap in the back of his brain Causing such a thing to tilt?

Grymfalk’s cut down. She’s hurt. No, no, no, no. He made a promise. He made a fucking promise. He couldn’t keep it. He’s tired of levin, the way it lights up all the faults in his world. He thinks by way of control and compromise… that he can stop these…

They see you. Thousands of eyes from the darkness, Beyond the barrier, the bashing, bearing down upon you with a heartbeat Of hallowed halls. This is the world beyond. Is there a woe attached? Like you’ve come to know? Like you once were. You don’t focus on other lives. You focus on…

The choir in your cranium calls out. Their songs of shadows and light will always be caught in your throat. Chakra, opened. Realize your role. You’re (not) a killer. You’re a cleric, A clergyman, A preacher of His word. Delivered through divine fist and feet.

I | THE DISTANCE YEARNING II | THE HORROR & THE HOME III | WORLD/WOE IV | MAKE THIS RIGHT

It’s a rhythm that rocks the ear. The willful sort of defiance to wake up to a field of stars. Annihilation raging below, and above. Emet-Selch watches it all too, the dead clambering and hanging from his shoulders. Then he turns. “No… it can’t be…” He wilts, those same dead…

“Grapes?” There’s a nod between the tall man and the child. And they get to work, soil turning over their fingers. All hands work the same with any sort of earth. “Mister?” Riqi-Tio’s ears perk up, and her smile brightens. “… yes?” He smiles back, a little weakly but putting…

“He’s not dying?” It isn’t the first time he’s heard that. He knows it won’t be the last. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. No, the pain blooms and blossoms with each passing spell, each little bit of void-touched fire frustratingly curling and twisting its way inside and out. …

Get up. Well, help to get up. Sometimes, used to feel and think this early in the morning. Tactile sensations relaying back to an old brain. Sheets. Blanket. Skin of another. She’s sleeping peacefully, and we’re happy to let her do so. Air. Atmosphere. A fresh crisp feeling through callused…