Chaos is God in a system of true disorder. And I seek to my title of God, I have no care for whoever crumples to nothing in my persuit to achieve such.
Sometimes it was harder pretending to be the things we were born to be. And in this fiction of his, she had a hard time pretending to be his.-APalace Of Ulric labyrinths, Elvira Crest.
PEOPLE WHO FELL into her work were shortened rivers of red absorbed by her clouds-clouds roaming across the blues only to soil the moods of their seasons. And as years passed by her changeless palms of crimson, she had gotten used to the hollowness in which the succumbing rivers had left her in.
Séraph Alchemy's journey from Alec to Lleveen had been her worst from the last couple of months. The dense jungles of the fifth planet had printed her skin in scrapes that would have no trouble retiring the numberless pastoral vines that curled misgiving at the roots and barks of the gaunt trees. As the mystic forests of lush barriers rasped alive with the music of a thousand of wild creatures, the melancholic echo of Bozez found a way to her ears through obfuscated flares of phrases, muffled with dreary anemoia that cooled against the beastly thunder of the verdant peculiarity surrounding her miles to come.
The Bozez city was just like the many other cities that crammed the edges of the planet's borders; small, yet a loving amount of crammed; beautiful, but a miserable abundance of ruined; faces so distinct, nonetheless, a traced pattern of counterfeit. It was almost a surreal experience as Séraph fixed her stride amongst the waves of people-a shaded controller in a crowd of shackled labourers, children of starless stories, and long-aged hopers. Against all the refinement of probity, it wasn't easy for her to forget the sole purpose of her journey: execution. Her vices would not leave, even if it was for a few seconds of drifting fantasies.
Séraph quickly learned to hate the sound of their busy feet, the shuffling soles of profound workers-her sincerest wish as a murderer. But what the young woman decided she hated most, that had to be them. The circle of children giggling as if resonant flowers had spontaneously bloomed at their throats with every innocent laugher that skipped their lips. She hated seeing them, not because Séraph knew she could never feel such a strenuous emotion, but because she knew she had a chance to be like them once.
Obliviously comfortable and pinned with the burdens of aspirations.
Séraph examined the town devoured in green as she hummed a waterfall of a song that ran to the horizon her tongue. Beyond the strangeness of unfamiliar, that little mix of notes was her only canopy of acquaintance. The song of Seraphim she had heard over the radio many years ago was hers. It had become her.
