The young blood bathes between the damp verdure earth.
The children build idols of maple, oak, and sycamore, blessed with the meal of blood and root.
They scream against the ebb and flow.
"Great mother, we have abandoned thee
we shall bore craters into thy hollow husk of a heart."
Their thousand pastel incandescent auras dim until only the flesh remains.
A boreal coat of rust takes the foliage of this sacred grove.
Their hollow bodies rise from the mulch and leafmeal.
Incandescent bodies of pearl and quartz, eyes as black and empty as etherium are blinded by the tides of fading light.
They are empty souls searching to fill a void, forever cursed to be emptied.
From the ash of her blood they achieve sentience, they sharpen their teeth on her still bleaching bones.
"Great mother, we have abandoned thee
we shall bore craters into thy hollow husk of a heart."
He comes
Shadows lengthen
The effigies of wood and marrow rot on the pike
We have conjured him
The lord of gold
The Alpinist.
Rising from his grotto, The Alpinist does his work, he decimated the treacherous children.
He now turns towards the Land of Gods, maw running thick with molten ore.
Their thousand pastel incandescent auras have been wiped from this earth.
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