Dark. All dark, all the days, thick like soup dribbling through pipes of paper pressed people pounding down the dank.
Scrabbling. Scrabbles. Scramble. Ramble. Rant. Rave. Revive. Reveal. Reinterpret... pret... pret... pet... pet... petting. Petting... repetting... repent... repentant... roar.
The roaring, the screaming, the howling in the abyss of the night far beyond the tread of treading feet. Bang, bang, bang, rattle the cage and the bars in our bars of empty cellars, cutting ourselves on the broken glass for pleasure, pain, empty gains for the brains, drains, feigns. Eyes that shift and do not shift do not see what is to be seen, seen or not seen, grasped or not grasped, hurt or not hurt, worshipped or not worshipped, hunting, prowling, waiting.
All waiting. Planning. Plan, ran, fan, fight, right, light or not the light. The absence of the light, the halo light, Halo, the core of our light, light from towers of glass and steel run on black obsidiguld, our worlds of zoomus and magna and region cut up by light's core absence.
Dark. All dark.
The dark. Shambling. Shaking. Waiting. Clutching. Unlocking. Awakening. Dancing.
Emerging.
YOU ARE READING
War Dance
Science FictionZ9, Xayne, and The LastLiners all come together in a dramatic end to Phase 2. Friends and enemies from across Celestria all face down a darkness, power so great that it threatens not only the planet, but the entire Empire and beyond. It all comes do...
