Title
There was once a woman who thought she could befriend the Devil. She had with her a blade of poisoned amicability, forged from the blackened tongue of a wasted calf. She did not wield it nor sheath it, but wore it as a necklace about her ankle. She was not given the chance to brandish it.
There was once a man who thought he could kill the Devil. He had with him a ball-peen hammer that he always twisted into his knuckle-bones, breaking them again and again in the hopes that they would one day become so splintered and twisted that he could tie the Devil and all its imps up in a bleeding, binding, killing embrace. He tripped and fell upon his own fingertips.
There was once a man who thought he could lure the Devil. He had with him a hammer and chisel, with which he marked a thousand passages, and in which he marked a million more. The halls in those jagged marks never rose nor fell, but plunged ever sideward in alluring, maddening patterns. A lonely ogre with fire in her heart and fog at her back plunged the chisel into the man's stomach.
There was once a woman who thought she could trap the Devil. She had with her a warped ruler and an axe, which she used to turn a twisted, xanthous weald into a single Door. In this Door, she saw fit to wait for the Devil--as well as its concubines and catamites--until she could eat the Door, and then the Door could eat it. She wept for the warped forest's loss, and the mad edges of the Door cut her all to pieces.
There was once a child who thought he could play with the Devil. He had with him a thousand-dozen-hundred-one-inch acres of gnarled trees, which beguiled the senses and twisted the wind into curling laughter. The child had always known the forest, and when he had never been an old man, he dimly recalled neglecting to grow the trees from a river that did not exist. The child Grew Up, and did not care so much for trees any more. He started dreaming of Doors.
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There was once an old man who thought he could be the Devil. He had with him a boat and a great, noxious river that was the color and acidic wickedness of urine. The old man would take the innocent across the river.
He promised safe passage to Gardens That Did Not, In Fact, Hang.
He promised borne pilgrimage to A City That Was Not, In Fact, Of Peace or Dusk
He promised a swift route to Athena, Who Was Not, In Fact, A Virgin.
The Old Man Lied.
Instead, the river would go on forever, into a delirious sky that twisted like a thousand melted, drunken dancers. The sun would blur and stretch, and the moon would shatter into a million cackling infants that screamed in triumph as their emerald gore struck the ground. The river itself, of course, would continue to swirl, curling and curdling endlessly upon itself.
The old man would not always stay in the boat; sometimes he jumped into the water, sometimes he killed himself, and sometimes he was never there at all. His passengers would scream and beg and plead and ask, "What is this? Where am I?! Where have you taken me?!" Of course, the old man had taken them nowhere, and would not tell them as such when he wasn't busy not rowing the boat.
Some froze in truest terror when the old man stretched his long, sharp fingers into their sockets and tore out their eyes. Some took it upon themselves to sever their sight. Either way, the river had claimed many pearls.
It is said that those whose eyes swam in the river did not go blind, but were forever cursed with the river's curling currents. The eyes would strain to focus, yet always fail, and those who were not blind would not weep blood.
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There was once a man who knew that the Devil would never follow him. So, he would string the Devil up with rope and drag it into a Door that had been a forest that had been a river,
and he would host a great banquet for the both of them that would last forever.
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RP Blog for a pseudo-OC: the Distortion post-MAG200, after being dragged by spider-silk into an untarnished world. Having comprehended that neither complete, violent delusion nor eerie, subtly ruinous amicability work in their respective extremes, the Distortion has found a happy medium between Michael and Helen, claiming the name and life of a Midwestern sophomore by the name of {ERRnull:type:d̶̢̨̡̖͕̠̰̖̻̲̦̥̘͉͉̪͚̺̩̦̱̯̝͈̯̤̜̭̱̺̠͕̲͇̖̭̊͛̏̐͛̔͗͛̾̆̽̽̊̄̂̇̈́̽̔̓̈̽͑́́̈́̃͒̀̃̉̔̈́͘̚͜͜ͅo̶̢̢͈̮̙̖̬͙̪̖̲͔̩̫̜̩̳̟̩̘̮̟̥̫̲̯̣̞̠͕̯̽̌̀͒͌̂͂͊͐̉͑̉̐̏̀́͌̄̾͌́͘͘̚͜͠͠í̵̧̧̢̢̛̛͉̜̱̠̺̦̩͉̦͍͚͙̯̘͔͓̫̺̟̻̱̟̝̲͎̼͈̗̜̺͚̗̩̤̝̺̫̤̳͇̭̬̘̙̺̺̈̈́̒̋̈̍̅͋͐̈͂̅͗̿͊̓̋̀̆̀̈́̈́̌̈̌͊̊̅́̈́̃̀͋̐̂͆̕͜ņ̸̡̧̡̨̡̢̥͈̥̤̻̤̘̼̦͇̠̯̗̥͚̳̮̻̣̱͉̝̖͉̥̣̤̤͔̜̫̬͇̯̙͇̮̭͔̜̤͉͉͖̠̘̤̰̘̥̠͔̻͈̟̤͓̲͓̉̈́̄̏̃̽̿͋̒͂́̃̉̉͂̓̿͛̊̎̎̂̔̇̑͑̿̿̓̏̀͆̔̏̓̈͒̀̽̐͛́́̄̀̃̌̆̍̒̈́̈́͋͘̚͘̕͘͜͝͠͝e̵̡̨̧̢̧̡̨̛̛̹̳͈̙̯͎͎̘̟͖̲̯̭̞̝̝̜͇͓̯̮̭̟̗̞͔͎̦͎̖͕͇͙̮͚̹͈̼͚̭̣̬͚͙͍͎̲̱͍̥̙̋̀̋̀̐̽̍̓̍̔͒͌̿̃͑̃̈́͛̃̄̍̏̇̓̆̈͒̇͆̒͑͐̈́͗̆̐͑̆͂̏̈́͒̑̈́̑͐͋̔̏̓͘͘̚̚̚͘̕͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅe̵̡̢̢̢̛̝̪͍̱̝͙͔̼̭̮̮͔̮̱͈̱͍̘͖̰̭̘͖̥͇͖̺͉͖̣̻̼͖͓̞͇̩̽̿͒͂̈́̆͂͊͒̎̈́̆̄̾̓̿̋̇̑̄̔̅̊̾̓́̌̀̀̀̎͐͗̑̉͗̊͛́͑́͑͂̎̅̒̓̍̆͐̂̏̑̑͊͘̚͜͝͠͝͠͝ͅd̴̢̡̹̘̤͇̭͓̗̦̰̯̟̳̠͎̀̾͝ͅt̸̡̨̧̡̢͖̘̫̱͖̦̦̳̪̠̲͇̖̬̳̬̲̺̰̝͔͖̟̭̱͇̞̪̭̱̗̻̥̠̙̪͍͎̱͚͇̄͐͛̾̐͛̄̄͊̐͗̀̾͋͆̑̇̆͆̌̈́͛͂̍͆̃͛̓̏́͋͗̈́͒̀͐̒͆̍̑̃̍̀̃̐̎͂͑̐̓̈́̚͘͜͠ͅo̴̡̨̢̡̨̧̨̧̫͙͎̝͎͉͕̤̺̲̦̞͕̩̮͇̜͖̜͈̹̜̘̭̩̬̣̻̖͕̦͇̥̥̣͚̝͖͌́̄̌̓̋̽̄͜͠ͅm̶͇͍͙̬͍̣̫̝͖̠̞̬̭͚͉͇̞͔͎̝̣̬̩͍͈̗͙̭̼͓̣̣̥̭̻̞̓̈́̈̑̂̿͗̾́̓̀́͌͗̔̇̋̈͗̏̔̔̈́̍̽́͗͑͊̽͆̽̌͗̑͆́͑̅̊̑̔̕̚͜͝͝͠͝͝͝ǎ̵̢̨̡̧̱̙̠̳̯̜̼͙̩̠̳̩̱̩̰̻̥͖̭̹̞̖̻͈̮͓̹͓̥̪̘̬̝̰̺̦̞̟̜̋̇̈́̎͆̎̃̆̋̒̇͊͛̊̓̆͋̓͆͌̐̏̂̅͆̐̑͐̀̎̓̐̐͊̿̇͊̈͘͜͝͠͝k̵̨̡̨̡̧͓̩̱̙̤͉͈͖͈̳̙̩͇̲͉̩̫̳͕͙̭͇͕̈̐͌͗̂͗̑͑̽̌̌̇͛͋̌͐͌̐̋̌̎̎̅͒͒̊̌̒̆̿̂̿̀́̀̕͜͠e̵̢̛̫̺͇͍̮͙͇͕̬̭̹̼̮̊͑̍͋̃͊̓͂́̓̑̈́̑̃̈́͐̑̈́̌̀̃̀͆̈́͆͂̆̏́̿͋̓̇͊͌̀̓͊̔̀͛́͐̓̓̽̌̉̎͊̒̓́͑͘̚̚͠͝͝ŝ̵̡̨̨̡̼̩̳̠̤͇̘͕̩̖̖͕͍̫̥̩̘̲̟̥̗̜̬͚̼̘̘͍̫̫̳̘̯͈̤̪͖̤̥̳̮̫̬̮̪͔͕̞̣͍̟̦͂̉̋̿̌̋̉̎͆̑͐̂̈̉̉͊͛̃͂̆̒̄̔̽͆́̂̓̂̈́̋̑̅̌̔̽͛̀̋̾̅̋͜͝͠͝ę̵̢̢̻͙̼̞̣̠͉͈̗̣͔̟̘̠̬̝̖̗̮̦͙͉̥͍̯͕̝͖̾̾̂̃̃̒̿̿͆̊̾̅͒͋̉̌̇̽͌́̂͊͒́̎̔̅̕̚͜͜͜͠͝͝n̵̡̢̧̛̠̲͙͓͉̩͔̗͉̝͙̼̖̤̲̞̹̬̦̹͕̲̼̙͇͔̣̹̭̱̟͕̼̠̝̜͎͇̭̩̤̖͓͓͚̭̭̖̺̣̲̙̖͈̥̱̮͔̮͍̯̒̀͌́̉̃̍̏̋̉̽̊̈́̍̉̅̂͆̏̎͛̈́̅̓͌͐̈̚̕͜͜ͅͅͅͅͅs̴̨̨̧̢̛̛͚̟̻̥̦͍̫̯͍̼̤̖̘͓̪͕̞̦̻͚̳̮͖̤̦̹͖̟̰͍͕͍̥̼̹̹̱̱͉̹͚͕̳͓̳͔̬̟̹̟̗͉̞̩͔̪͕͑͐͑͐̂̽́͑̂͌̍̃̒̑̈́͐̓̌̋͆̎̎̊̓̈́̀͋̓̀̂̓̎͗̉̈́̊̿̂̅̓̈̽̋̒̈́͌͗͆͋̕͝ͅͅe̵̡̨̨̨̧̧̹̮̩̲̟̳̭͙̗͇͕̙͎̲͙̝̜͓̦̬̬͎̰͔͖̝̠̫̺̰̘̻̞̳͉̺̣͓̿͐͛͐̈́̂̿̚͠ͅf̶̨̡̧̨̬̜̮̤̤̫̩̳͖̙̖̯̲͚͕̜͕̫͉͚̭͈̻̘͍͍̰̙̗̝̭̞̦̩̥̫͖̖̟̩̗̳͕̳̟̳̺̺͈̼̱̮͍͕̮̬̙͓͍̱̣̠̙̲͑̈͛̓̃̔̌́̀́̇̒͐̾̃̊̎͐̇̅͂͋͐̋͛͐̂̾̓̐͑̑̒͌̆͒͐̋̈͘̚̚̕͘̚̚͜͜͠ơ̵̧̡̨̢̞̪̻̫͎̖̭̗͉͚͇͔͇̻̟̻̥̟̮̤̞̻͕͖̝͉̘̮͍̖̫̫͔̫̰̗͓̳̲̫͈̝̭͕̪͔͈̙̲̗̱̥̼̙͎̩̠͐̓̈́́͐̿͋̍͒͑̈͂̓̔̆̇̆̓̃̋̊̋̆̅͐̌̍̈͌̑͋́͐̑̊̎̀̓͂̆̀̐̈̈́̿̇͑͋̊͛̋͘͘͘͘̚̕͘͝͝͠͝͝͝r̴̨̢̢̢̧̢̧̢̨̛̫̲̪̫̪̹̱̥͓̬̗̰̱̘͈̮̩͍̖͇̬̮͙̩̼̝̪̅̇̅̐́͂́̀̏̈́̓̀̏̏̂̇̀̑̕̚͠ͅͅy̶̢̧̧̨̢̢̛̰͍̭̜̰̫̱̟̘̙̹̱̝̏͆̿̀̽̽̿̈́̇͊̔͒̓̍̔͌̾͆̎́͐̐̾͒́̈̔̃̂̌̇̑̉͆́̊̀̀̇͋̉͂̽͌̿̆͋̄̑̓̓̏͗͂̏̋͛̀̒͘͘̚͜͜͜͝͠͠͠ỏ̴͕͛͛͑̉̓̌̄͊̄͆͆̏͂͛̎̆͊̃̆̈̉̀͌̊͂̊́̒͂̊̑͆̑͠͠u̵̧̢̧̡̬̪̺͚͕̬̗͍̥̰͎͙͈͉̹̬̜͇͓̭̘͓̖̲̱̝̣͈̙̭̖̫̦̤͈͈͚̼̹̯̩͚̻͕̮̘͚̘͈̩̻͍̼͔͍̇́̌̃͌̉̌̑̏͗̈́͘͜͝t̵͙͍̗̊̓̽̓̆̇̊̐̓͐̈͑̂̆͆̏̈́̎̔̿̑̇̍̇̓̈́͋͂̈́͋̂̉̀̃̈́̂͛͋͒́́̎̌͛͌̐͂̍̕͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ơ̴̛̛̛̞̼̦̼͍͚̤̞̮̺̏̿̈́̋͂̏͐̏̽̽̊̔̈̊̍̍͊̾͐̓̎̑͊͌̇̄̀̽͒͊̔̑̏̿͆̒̏̀̐̓̎̊̃͛̏̓͐͆͌̅̏͆͗̍̈́͑͛̑͘̚͝͝͝ͅȓ̴̢̨̧̨̼͖͓͖̱̳͍͈̞̯̫̱̹͈͎̩̤̝̘̤̥̲͓̯̰̜̠̜͈̫̬͕̻̺̤̼͚̳͎͙͚̭̠͎̫̰̳̣̎̽̈́͛͌̅̌̿̑̒̋̃̈́̿͛͗̆̽͂̋̒̊͑̉̊͊͒̀̈́̌̾͛̓̅̑̓̒̈́̎́̕͘̚͜͜͜͝ų̸̛̰̪͎̯̗͔̄ń̶̢̢̧̧̦̦̲̩͈̮̟̟͇͕̤̤̭͍͈̱̥͙̫̟͔̼̗̗͈̥̟̲̘̤̩̜̫̹͈͙̜̹̗̪̗̭̹̥̖̲͖͙̞̮̲̼̹͖̻̜̗̭̪͉͓̿̀̏͆͐͌͆̉͆̈́̀̄͋̽̔̋͋̓͑̓̿͛́̎͊͘͘͝͝͝͝.door.png]
