Its a pond of blood and bone. The Corpses. Those once angelic cherubs, I can scarcely describe the site of it all. Its as if the Devil's lake has arose above ground, a mangled collage of bared teeth and ripped tendons, Death joining so many brothers, fathers and sons, cousins in a bleak dirt cauldron of the damned. Our makeshift general has for cremation. I have fought his commands. These young souls burned away? Those spirits that may still visit and offer solace and comfort musette be purged of their life once lived. They must suffer these memories and wear the badges of courage at your gates! Dear Lord I pry, for a woman's voice to be heard.
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The Angel's Trumpet
FantasiDelysia Jones The patron Saint of Rebellion. Of those who pray to her, those who awake in the night staring into the eyes of a dead king weighing on their chest, those who sail in blood and bury luxury within the earth. Pray to her when war wages...
