12 June 2010

Night Terrors 3 - After Forever

Night Terrors 3 - After Forever

Black whole sun in a sound garden of fire as blood runs black and the carrion birds bleed the sky. The fires in the dark as the city ridges burn in the summer sun, in the distance on the mounds of chaos stands a magically evil man with arms as snakes and eyes like knives, in cloak of the depths he stands down the street.

“For the song of the demon, you will walk with the dead!”

Aghast anxiety as the natural light smokes with some tincture of the fires of hell, the earth begins to rumble as the warlock raises his arms. In the commotion, windows begin to break high above the city street as the demon turns to fire and burns to ash in a moment’s time. The street is full of glass, the sky dark with the exception of one or two faded thin light spots, where the gold rays of light of the sky would try, and fail, to shine to the earth, kilter smatters of shaded light in the clouded veil. From out of one of the buildings a person comes rushing to the ground, angry, swiftly and rightly so without an ability to fly, to smash upon the ground, within furious infraction to the conditions of the norm, or what could be without the fire and brimstone. The body twitches and just as soon as more windows begin to smash, shatter and break, more jumpers fall to a plighted death. They are the living dead, taking mortal injury from fatal wound and rising into a cursed dark march of the unholy oblivion, as he begins running from the storm or maven fear, running from the raining bodies.

Bodies that begin to push the pavement, rising to a collected contagion, a suffering rage with dead seeds of the mind and hearts full of fermenting death, apparently deceased they fall and drudgingly arise marching as wretched trollops with wanting limbs of early decay.

With dedication and a mastered mutation of innovation toward the burning horizon with compassion seeking refuge from the deluge of the damned, with dedication he makes domination of his plight. With tidal aggression leaving behind tragic sin and the all forever evil kindred reaching an opening to the gateway of hell, the warlock not incinerated but taken to inception, to the fires of hell’s dark ocean.

Red raging flames course the edges of the void as the vigilante of redemption dives into the fire. The red fire wizard walks down the steep undiscovered mountain of fiery ice, yet upon notice leaps from the cragged edge, donning wing and a carapace of braised and hardened tar, made proper in the gasping flames from the firestorm. The hunter falls to the beast, in collision with the demon deep within hell, the nightmares of burning winged Minotaurs ripping and tearing as the apparitions of the fiery wind and searing ashes of the wake. The man rises above the ashes upon faded wind in dark moments, idle power within destruction, with hands above his head like a white sailing bird of fortune stabs the mire lord in the collar and as fast the pierce, drags the blade across, tearing open the torrid waters of its heart.

With the dawn of life at the eve of death at the edge of eternal darkness, like magic the tomb of mortality crumbles and like the sun, arises anew. The trench coat in tattered singed ashes breaks from him and he spreads his wings of ascent, a white cove of cloud, the back a dull grey of the mind. He spans and throws the fire in fell gusts, pushing himself out of the inward recession of clouded hatred. The opening closes and grasps to itself, shutting like molten sand and river fire, the exit closes leaving the once exultant defilade now a floor, filled with black stone and hardened pools of obsidian in the pavement. His wings singed and fringed, ripped and in some cases stripped, he gives fleeting escape.