The hand rests before the hour, fingers burning; pointing one direction.
Fused frame. All ways outward are blessed.
The eyes shine inward, illuminating death.
They roam euphorically in melancholy halls that drip with the fermented blood of the ancients.
A whisper into the darkness summons forth the spectator.
The taboo Trickster calls to the trepid chosen who paint their transgressions, now fixated upon the wheel of self-righteous ritual.
Their voices laden with shame and blame, bound to the wheel- ever turning back on itself, never satiating their broken and weary hearts.
The light is seen no more by their gouged minds.
Fate has withdrawn Her unmalleable tendrils allowing the discourse of these fervid lost who meander beneath the Midnight Sun.
Whilst awaiting the foreboding that fails to arrive, they cry out with vindication, dreaming up magistrates who will sustain their enterprise, incredulous, as they are sightless.
The Trickster bears down, consumed by gluttonous reprisal.
This lackluster Sun will never set upon these frozen landscapes; these tear-swept plains of immortal thought.
The Temple doors are opened.
All blundering souls transfix the gateway as Fate unfurls Her paralyzing grasp.
Pathways twist, hitherto leading nowhere, whilst unspent Time has gathered the ill-fortuned into Its midst.
An Unknown Wanderer moves from the shadows, beginning his sojourn among the transfixed, and marking each according to their displeasure.
They writhe in the discomfort of this unwelcome tithe, pleading with the ghosts of reckoning for an abatement of diligence.
Obliteration will belie their vanity.
The Wanderer’s vestments hold no such implements for hopeless abandonment.
Fate dismantles Her tapestry, and the Wanderer is revealed as He takes a seat at the Alchemist’s Loom.
A Scythe of Retribution is wielded loftily and adorned with the merciless artifacts of the ages.
The wheel halts in surreptitious disdain.
With Scythe in hand, the Alchemist conjoins with Fate and Time, casting the blasphemous wheel upon the Shores of Oblivion.
The wretched are laid open with each stroke of the Scythe and cast out like lures into the endless void.
Mishappen hearts, reveled by furious transmutation; sigh with tumultuous clamor as they rejoin the collective zygote.
The Trickster’s qualms are shattered with catastrophic vorticity in the Scythe’s wake.
A new cycle begins, reshaped in the tactful forges of ethereal bounty.