d r σ w n t h e w o r l d i n r e d
There’s no fanfare when they arrive—no telltale shuffling of shoes, no daunting chill draping over shoulders and breathing down necks. The unfortunate only know time’s up when phantom fingers slip over their eyes and a chorus of squelches sound the air.
Red spills, splatters, sloshes all over the floors. Always a different painting of life snatched before its time.
They’re the culprits—the predators, the damned, the coup d’etat. There’s a tangled thread of misery, grievances, torture and pain impaled through their chests. Lines of intersecting relations crisscross, twists, knots and pulls tight around their necks like a foreboding noose. These are the puppeteer’s strings. A puppeteer by the name of Fate.
After all, those who dare to play God always end up being played by God.
C o n q u e s t | W a r | F a m i n e | D e a t h
Independent | Lit. AU | 18+|Triggering | Reblog/Follow | Armagedon