@inmemcr | red zinnia.
he comes bearing the taste of ashen brimstone, shivering frame cloaked by tendrils of inexorable rot and the acrid sting of a poisoned spirit. the sight (the smell, the memory) rattles ice-hallowed bones, curdles divine ichor with some sickened ache, and trawls a low moan from trembling jaws.
❛ little moon, ❜ they twist and twist, roiling against biting winds to shield this very battered, very tired soul. ❛ you have shone for too long. rest, dear child. i will protect you. ❜











