By: Bayl Posted on: September 30, 2015
The sickening wet sound of the
nail peeling back and the nail
going in. The explosions of red
heat beyind my grook eyes,
my wet and viscous skin
shivering in the fog
of Mhaldor, this frog
of Mhlador has seen red and white and
black all over and knows the secrets.
How lovely, you are, my dear, skinless
and dripping here in the dungeons of
the Fortress, ready for your purification:
ready for Him, the one that knows, the
fire-veined King and the once-split
Prince, oh how lovely indeed.
Pain is relative. All is relative. Blood money,
bloodsport, bloodlust, and sanguine humours
all here with me in the black heart of a black house.
My skin sizzles with the brand and I have traced
the teachings of this place with my webbed
fingers until the nerves and arteries were
wracked like an infidel before the gallows.
Oh, heathens, oh children of the Light,
how I dream of your innards on warm summer
eventides and think on your hollow bones.
It is sublime, these reveries of the midnight
path and in the unbearable heat of the
moment I have seen the face of my
future staring back from the mirror of the Black
City. It is beautiful. You, too, can be beautiful,
weak thing, but it will take work.
Are you prepared? Are you ready?
Come. Be beautiful with me.
It only hurts for a moment.
For a lifetime.