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A sundry of brilliancies, white brume obscure the observer: the lictor! One too pure a fool, could not be brought to hew the lochaber. Wending through the tenebrous, to ponder the senseless ambsace. When unearthed the twilit scree, heard across Borea the lictor’s haunting scream.

Ride!

Torch-borne simulacra, the serpent of flame descends the mountain—a fire of vengeance.

Ride!

The hammer of vengeance wielded by rage, viscerate the vermin. Nigh drag their throats behind his steed.

A thunderstorm of thrashing maniacs burn the rats where they sleep; a triumph, a fete of joy. Now ne wille they raise their hands, they have been crushed.

Parting trunks with radiant power, strands of darting vermillion that ink waves of violet across

the sky. As the morning star paints the valley, below the sanguine shining, on the dead: like statues, their hands frozen. Once-live caryatid holding up the sky.