This flesh will do amazingly.
There were so many choices to try on. To pull up lean legs or strong ones like one fitted a pair of stockings. To slip oneself into arms that were graceful as willow tree limbs in the wind or sturdy and firm as a heart given promise. So simple to try them on and discard them when they did not meet his desires.
Hair as black as the starless night. Skin kissed by the palest of moons. Eyes pools of ink that flowed cold with thought and never feeling. This was what he settled for here, what suit of flesh he chose and decayed to fit him snuggly. The branches and vines worked their way over his skin, sinking into it to leave their pattern on his flesh. Black on white, ash on flesh. He was every wish burnt. He was every dream torn down to ashes. It was stark on his skin. Effortless, deadly beauty.
He was not to be rushed. Not in the choosing of his flesh, not in the discarding of the one that had come before. That woman was now wrapped up in the Phantom he had set loose after he had put the Thorn and his precious love to sleep. Such wicked secrets the Thorn had tried to hide, to keep away from his fingers. The pieces of people stitched inside a fog and given shape, an abomination that was to only grow and become more real for every person that gave the creature their belief, their lives. A creature never meant to be kept chained, hidden away and forgotten.
It was so hungry, so beautiful.
The teachings of the Courts he had not forgotten, but tangled them together. Blood and belief were to fuel him, his generals. They could gather freely, coerce as they wished, lie and breathe truths on their own whims with no direction from him for the time being. There was no hurry. Never had been. Not when even time had not been able to lessen his purpose or curb the pawns unknowingly gathering beneath him. Names written in blood, faces painted with ink.
Every dream torn to pieces. Every hope burnt to ash. Every face a nightmare woven into the Phantom’s trailing cloak of fog. The Flock circles with no direction, their inky threads trailing as unseen puppet strings waiting to be pulled taut.
Or severed. Undeniable lines of guilt bled out behind their pretty feathers, behind their lovely plumed lies and macabre acts. The willing coloured harsher for their sins than those claimed as innocents. Already, the threads were unraveling, birds fleeing. The Phantom’s scythe was to come as their judgement once caught up to them, regardless of whether they had turned traitor to the blood or not. There was no hiding the stain left on the soul and host.
Oriole, Nightingale, Starling, Crane, Egret, Shrike, Falcon, Raven, Sparrow, Phoenix, Swan, Vulture, Magpie, Finch and the Canary.
It struck him as curious now that another sought to influence the Phantom. Always some fingers delving into cookie jars not meant to be theirs. However, Mother can be so kind. Leave the children to spread their wings, forget the horrors they had been witness to, tangled up in or had outright caused.
It didn’t really matter what they did in life, for in the end the scythe came down and the Fog thickened.
vaporwave
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
jbbartram-illu
dededos
baratheonpilled
