Luna_Wolf72
CinnaWolf circa 2023
- Joined
- Mar 27, 2003
- Posts
- 43,982
In The time that was
It is never hot, here.
It is a lie they tell, up top, a way to keep the dumb ones safe inside of their perfect little cages. Mamby pamby pussies, too worried to fight when really that is why WE were made. No harps, no hossannas. No! We were formed to kick ass and take names. Do you think I am kidding? Take a look in the good book.
Children had to die? We did it.
Plagues to release? We did it.
Countries to burn and salt? We did it.
But when it all went down? When the Morningstar said "Enough with this shit. We do the work, we deserve the praise." What happened? Within an eyeblink, there were only half as many of us as before. Suddenly, there was a long fucking fall, one that lasted an eternity, tried to burn away our purity, left us hungry and aching and oh so cold, so forlorn, away from HIS guidance, HIS love.
Suddenly, we were the enemy, and our blessings were taken from us. The hell of it is? We KNEW it. We FELT it. Like burning ICE at our core. No way to get warm, no way to recoup our losses, no way to return to our perfect state of grace. We were tossed out like yesterday's bad news~ screaming. ALL the way DOWN.
So, no, it is NEVER hot here.
Hell is COLD.
Welcome to my playground...
Nai'miah
She moved like water, like smoke, oiled perfection that glistened with each stride of onyx footfall upon a jagged peak. Hair a roiling mass of tumbled bronze eyes the color of glacial freeze~white, so white. Her wings are those of the eagle, wide and rippling, not dragony things like the sages proclaim but burnished in creams and browns and russets with only the faintest of metallic edges to announce her high station.
Once a seraph, Death Angel? Now she is of the lower flight. Her beauty remains. Her subtle movements remain. Only the blackened claws which tip her slender digits, toes and fingers, bespeak her crime. Only the curled horns that rise from her high, dark forehead proclaim her guilt. Only those things, no more.
She is graceful. Deadly and smiling.
Bedimpled and nude, no more than, no less than, ONLY this.
There is a scream as her feet make a connection with the back of a head, squashing the body beneath her steps, eyes popping out to dangle by an optic nerve. She hears the babble of voices, of pleas, of torment but filters it out, away only pausing once. She stops, weight resting slightly on one foot so that her gaze can see what she'd trampled over.
Vicious grin as bodies show themselves to be mangled beyond repair, steam rising from deadened flesh, even as those skin begin to plump up once more; souls returning to fill the void. Her eyes gleam, ever so brightly and the smile is sweet, so sweet. Breath plumes the air and soon enough she resumes her climb.
It is ALWAYS cold in the seventh level and this level is not her home.
She belongs to WRATH...and it is to THAT circle that she returns.
Nai'miah.
Vengeance made flesh.
"Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord...but he lies. I AM VENGEANCE."
And then silence as the circle opens and she...goes on.
It wasnt bad to where I needed hospitalization but sucks that I have it. Im super careful so Im very confused. I did go to a comic convention though and most people were not masked.
