Dark Age

Using the bones of our braves fallen in the Rain, I saw a griffin in the flames. Winged and stained red, red as the eyes of a Helldiver. And the gray smoke that formed above the griffin took the shape of a fox, one old and cunning, but held back by thorns of darkness.

Even if you survive this walk, you can never best Darrow,

lying is not a science, it is an art. And art will always be a human language

lying is not a science, it is an art. And art will always be a human language

“Hello, goodman. Kavax said you might need a hand.”

I would die for the truth that all men are created equal. But in the kingdom of death, amidst ramparts of bodies and wind all of screams, there is a king, and his name is not Lune. It is Reaper.

They turn their glowing evil red eyes toward me, and I laugh when they do not fire, for I am a spirit warrior and I point my rifle at them, pull the trigger, and shit down my leg, because I am alone amongst a pack of hunterkiller robots and it is no rifle in my hand, it is only a mop.

Except if he found a wife! I want babies to ride Sophocles! Or a husband!

“I hate tea,” a synthesized voice growls from above. “It’s just coffee with piss instead of coffee.”

But he is just a man. Men are impulsive and blinded by the snake between their legs.