I have finally reached chap 15 and I'm thinking of doing the rewrite right now.(Take chap 1 for reference)If you guys let me I will do it every 15 chaps when I have no school. So, yeah. I love you all, thank you for seeing the potential of my work. ^_^ .
And some poems for fun.
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1: Disfigured things may be left as monsters in the breeze, closely quantified by those with no teeth. Those that seek the keepers of the rift, yet never they are found or closely seen by the furious marbles of the outside sea.
Monster is not a thing for any gilthy linch. Monster is not for those bounded by by that thing.
Monsters are for collected beings that strive in the blood of endless dreams; desirable things made of shattered things. Monster is for those that strike into the endless bindings of time and rip it apart, showing the repulsive stench hidden inside.
Monster is not a bad thing...unlike those aberrations...miscreations that spread lies, upon lies, inflicting our names in the clouds of their decaying minds. We are ticked skinned; scaled to the teeth. Gods upon all of things, apart from our ascended kins...3 dimensions, 1 thing...dramatic effect achieved.
2: Our file of characteristics are not unique as much as our race scales them to be, to the heights of the weakest gods we absorbs incorporate in…
We are just simple things.
Born as the weak, we believe our race has achieved the grasp of many unreachable mysteries. contemplating upon the stars we live in misery for the mutations torch is bygone our current expectatives.
The recreation of eldritch gods we have achieved yet we have not believed. Turn, upon turn, we search and we search. Corner, upon corner, we smile and respect. What about the middle? The middle is for the true species that don’t believe themselves as the most powerful of them all.
3: “BOOOOOOM! BOM! BOOOM! BOM BOMbom….”-Supernova by the way…
4: In the grotesque night of the scaled weaver's wife, time passed and passed. Golden splinters of light came out of her curled hands as she sang her song of protest and revenge.
~Teather the night of lime and grime.~
~Keeper of the night, as time has passed.~
~Bigger before, as time has closed.~
~Now in this form of rust and gold…~
...
~keeping my soul turned and rolled, I eat it and go alone.~
-Go alone-
*Gulp*
-Go alone-
~More powerful than before, I reach for the night.~
~Incendiary talent that I will forge and kill him until he is-”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
0 “What are you doing?” 0
~A weaver of death sits on my throne…~
“Get out or face the cords of fate.”
0 “You think controlling them is normal Megn?” 0
~I Control my raging fate for I have”
*leaps*
*Screams*
~AHHAHAHAHAHHA.~
~I now stand...savoring the weavers blood...forgetting who he...was...or who he faked being.~
5: Outside of known range, well upon, well of unhindered powers, took on the sacred form of a sharp paved tower. Toyed for its sacred treasures...tombs they did not but scorn and smack. It was a game for all of them...until they saw what hindered on the top.
The monstrosity that had curled around the tower so perfectly beyond the years and only noticed when they went into the last room, laughed, as that room had a hole and the head of one of the most desired creatures sticking out of it.
A dragon of the elements; a god of all creatures on the planet. Humans were not part of that…
“Dragon, we have come to slay you.” Taking his fist into his extended palm, a friend, foe, saw the opportunity and took on the rights of punishing him.
*The kid vomits and falls to the ground as absurd as it may seem*
“Stop acting like one of those fools! We are not in those, those unethical dark stories!”
Bored for millennia takes you through many drastic measurements, and this was no tined exception.
*Gulp*
And so the cute dragon used them to fuel his nail polishing service...
6: Time and time again, I have not surrendered, fallen for those repulsive bows. I have bilt my way from the weakest to the most powerful effect. I have made the most outstanding job in this dying planet. I have...yet here I’m, kneeling to a crimson eyed monster; an existence that came from who knows where, did who knows what, and now here I’m.
I try to pledge for my sacred life and my tongue is cut from the very reaches of my throat. The blood eyed monster inspects me and makes his terrifying choice…”Death.” I turn and shift, and raise my sword but the nails of this thing shatter it into stone, and so I’m left alone. In the river of souls. Into the way of scorn.
Fears I did not recognise attack from all sides, from all angles, and so I remember what this place is...the only place I can actually think and be controlled by nothing than myself. The tyrant...that horrible thing.
My killer has plans for me...it is weak at first but grows in strength as time passes, a pull of some kind that will bring me back.
Death is not a choice for that red eyed god.
7: Formed from the bones of a narcissistic lord of light came the life of a dark deity, another of those...yet it was different. Its bones made of crimson metal and borne thorns turned out weak and deformed. His mouth created into red stone. His eyes into mouths of disdain and endless seas of pain...Its finger...the eye of a medusa.
Hitting the cold marble floor the child rolled and rolled, as pieces of rock and blood came out like a storm painting his rolling form. The sky shrieked and stretched in pain, as there was nothing it its temple to be said. its god had died, and now it would all be gone. All taken by that void outside...yet a part of his master was left alive in the form of a debilitating dwarf.
The sky formed a tunnel and gave the thing it's all...but what the sky did not know, was that the child was made to be a endless rift, a rift that would kill everything...
8: Tilted forms that take roped tones, deserve the time put in their homes in the plutonian shore. Oh right, what might, we might, be talking about?
That is for you to answer and me to spill it out in tongues, which the eye can’t descifrate for it holds mine and yours. For us this jungle or rambling cords is known to all as nothing but a tone of hope.
A loop of endless possibilities that can hold one or two, but that depends on you.
9: Ripple of organic things that seek no rooming lead form from the sky and fall into a mouth of gas.
If they were informative of the things that made them associative their eyes would shine and be waxed by the rubbers of mumblelers, turned and left as decaying couplers.
Turned and turned into shapes they did not made, they form and grow into grey deaths; bringers of pain. All of them one single brain... hive mind...den our home...
10: Turned from flesh into bone I jawn and sit on my lovely pink tome. From the skies of mysteries and endless lore, a mountain descends and gives way for my hope. Bilt from anger and envy it opens its doors. leaving open a chance to leave and find a new goal.
Torrent of thoughts blaze in my mind but one: my desire to go. I have destroyed and consumed the flesh of all, to reach the final stage of this strange plage, a furious worm that destroys and collects for me and no one more.
I have been in here for too long...for I am not bones, m just here for the fun.