Okkult on Cult of Ashmore

Coda

Thu, 29 Jan 2026 14:00:40 +0000

A new god
stood on heaven's edge.
They called him Naj.
He slew the Gods.
He buried the Witch.
Aeons died.
Aeons born.

Behind him
burned the ruins of Skreiburg.
He stared
at what he had done.

Steps approached Naj.
Needlebones arrived.
A thousand cogs—
ancient clockworks,
all alive—
came to rest beside the God.
He waited, again.

Tick. Tock.

A child was born.
A second.

The mothers brought their children.

Son of a rebel.
Daughter of a rebel.
You have slain their father.
You have slain our husband.

Who was their father?

Dog-beast stared back from the children.

The stars mirrored themselves in the daughter's tears.

I return this child to her father.

The daughter understood and fled.
She took her rightful place:
next to the stars.
Her strength broke the endless night.

The son envied her and cried.

Naj drew Mutemaker.
He cut the night in two,
kissed the blade goodbye,
and threw it into the Gap.

I cannot kill one while the other lives.
The son understood and followed the exile.
His kingdom was far from hers.
Burning anger
flashed in mortal eyes.

Sun ruled the day.
Moon lit the night.

The children's rage
formed a battlefield
between summer and winter.
Many shadows woke
beneath melting ice
and burning sand.
Naj saw their cause.
He dropped to his knees.

I feel the weight of the throne I tried to burn.
Advise me.

Needlebones,
older than the gods,
grabbed the God
and threw him into the Gap.

With an aching sound,
rusty claws
built a gate of metal
from dead soldiers' armor
and sealed the Gap.

He broke a piece of his spine,
locked the gate,
and forced it back into his body.

It is shut.
I will not break my bones again.

Mortals feared.

Needlebone went far away,
seen by many,
survived by few,
but sensed by every mortal.

Nothing can be so Okkult.

No More Gods

Tue, 13 Jan 2026 15:00:02 +0000

Godslayer entered.
Seven grey gods expected him,
breathing fog.
At the window, Vindman watched.

Moments or aeons might have passed.
No stone moved.
Trees stopped growing.

Imirdostan broke the silence:

What will be–
When there is more than grey?
When humans are born, not given?
Revenge is what must pay debt.
We killed time.
It cannot turn shards into glass.

Godslayer saw only the burning stakes.
Smoke. The smell of burning flesh.

The second, Anagostan:

No good can come
when everything is different.
War pretends to rest.
Peace is not king.
Smell or taste, even color
are metal for the forge.

Equaristhadan, the third:

The Grey remember what was.
Agur built the world.
Egir drowned it in fear.
Igar carved will to bone.
We crucified the mother of decisions.

Burning feet, dancing quietly.
All the pain, swallowed, mute.

The fourth, Norzostan:

Fire burst from titan bones.
All directions burned at once.
Chaos.
We, the Grey alone,
keep mortals safe
from joy and color.

The fifth of them, Mauauristan:

Madness.
As if we all deserve the same.
As if we were all the same.
You are a thief
who steals a slave's chance
to grow and prosper.
Tyrant dressed as a rebel.

The child is dying with its mother.
No sound.
There was never a chance.

The sixth, Xytholostan, spoke:

Slay us. Make room for the next.
What was, will be.
Life does not live in chaos.
The wise teach with pain.
Gods must be paid.
Destroy the Grey.
The next asks the same price.

A bird on earth dared to whisper.
It fell dead from the tree,
Vindman would not give it air.
Silence must be complete.

The newborn stars watched from above.
Godslayer had no tongue to answer.
He had no eyes to see a god.
All words were wasted upon him.

Imirdostan stepped forward.

Listen!

Godslayer grabbed the God by his neck,
tore off his head with a pull,
followed by a snakelike spine.
Convulsing. Blood spread far.

Down to earth, like rain,
a color returned,
touched the grass and gardens
painted flowers into life.
Roses, spined.

The first of the seven gods had died.
Silence died with him:
Bells sounded down on earth.
The end of an era had begun.
Blood drew roses on Godslayer's bones.
Burning spines.

The seventh God, Barabuktustan:

We are purity and order.
We prevent degeneration.
Women lie with women.
Men lie with men.
Different tribes mix their blood.
We alone know what—

Mutemaker fell.
Barabuktustan's head split in two.
His eyes stared east and west.
Vindman understood.
Down on earth, a storm came up,
carrying no water—
a whirlwind of chaos.
Godslayer's right eye turned blind.
He did not stop.

Xytholostan reached for his sword.
Godslayer pierced him with all his strength.
Mutemaker tore through the body,
broke through clouds and winds,
and killed a valley far.
Earth trembled in pain, moved.
It never forgot.
All memories came to Godslayer;
he remembered every word
and every scream.

Anagostan shot a burning arrow.
Godslayer pulled it from his body.
With swift steps, he lifted the God
and rammed the arrow in her left eye.
Her voice turned into a Stitcher's blade:
Mountains lost their heads.
They spilled the burning bowels of Earth.
The heat burned the lungs of Godslayer
until he didn't need them anymore.

Stench of blood.
Mutemakers wailed in joy
while cutting Equaristhadan's limbs.
They broke through the walls,
fell into the ocean.
Waves built up as high as trees
and drowned many mortals.
Godslayer heard the screams of thousands.
He could not close his ears.

Norzostan attacked with claws,
like a bear, he grew beyond himself.
Godslayer got hold of his hands,
cut them off,
and slipped into them like gloves.
Then he opened the God's breast.
There was no heart—
but millions of locusts
fled to feed on earth.
Never felt Godslayer such hunger.

Mauauristan trembled.
Her time had come.
She knew.
Her mind grew dark.
Her body grew old.
And before Godslayer could strike,
she turned to wax
and died of fear.
And so did many of her heirs,
now and in future.
Godslayer coughed.
Blood stained his hand.

All bodies dropped.
Where the grey once stood,
balls of light grew.

Earth rumbled.
Ancestors had withdrawn their heritage.
The Gap widened, but there was no one left to eat.

Chaos turned to Kaoz.
Nothing kept its shape.
Fog turned to a dream.

Godslayer swallowed a seventh of each light.
He sent a seventh to the stars and made them eternal.
He sent a seventh down to earth and broke red into three.
He sent a seventh to the trees, and their roots grew deep.
He sent a seventh to the woman, and breath returned to them.
He sent a seventh to the world, but it was not enough to heal.

The rest he cursed and sent to earth.
To dwell in cats forever,
and grieve their sins
and seduce the weak.
Their era was forgotten.
They live as echoes of a dark age.

The seventh of the seven lights.
A light shone down on Godslayer.
He was no longer mortal, no judge.
No more gods.
Godslayer was dead.

He who gave birth to himself,
who ate seven shards of God,
became God.

Godslayer

Sat, 29 Nov 2025 14:59:21 +0000

The ceiling of the Hall of the Horned
is my only home,
where they made me
crown
and slave

I serve my sentence
in a time without time
chained by duty
forever.

The Stitchers broke my legs,
bound them into circles—
beautiful.
I cannot move.
I hang here,
a chandelier of human bones.

They gave me arms
to hold their candles.
No longer can I lift a sword,
no uprising can I lead.
What remains of me
is doomed to light
the darkened days.

In the center of all bones
sits my skull,
forced to stare down
at those,
who broke my spine.

I must watch the hall
and cannot die,
cannot cry.
Ears forced open
to their laughter—
their songs
of rape
...and death.

Sometimes my jaws break,
the crown howls
like a dog in pain.
Their crossbows spit arrows,
splitting bones,
twisting hope.
Reminding me
what I am
and where I belong.

Could I only cry
tears would flood the fog
drown this castle
a vast ocean
devours all earth.

No mercy.
Stitchers have no mercy.
I am not entirely dead,
and nothing in me is alive.
I became a thing
that traps my soul
in bone.
I am an outsider
even to the one
who gave me birth.
A flaw to her,
and wrong,
in the eyes of the gods.
Prayers are useless
in Skreiburg, the house of gods.

So I stare,
and stare,
and stare.
No tears.

·†·

First, the sound of battle:
trumpets, drums.
Stone walls rumbled.
Skreiburg ached.

Horned warriors
stood side by side
black armour, heavy shields—
born to die this day,
shivering
behind the gates.

Heralds:
Dog-Beast has fallen
The Gap has opened
The gates will open to the slayer

Westskrei opened—
rumbling, slow, groaning.
Centuries asleep
broken for this day.
Dust fell.
Ancient timber gave way.
The smell of rot
forbade the future.

Only one man enters—
the one who slew the beast.
Mortal father once,
judge and executioner today.

He has no tongue.
He cannot forgive.
He has no eyes.
He is blind to suffering.
He has no ears.
He is deaf to their calls.

No battlecries in the hall.
Vindman’s boneflutes lament outside.
Thunder crawls across the crowd.
Mutemaker draws itself.

One scream:
The Judge descends.

Arrows fly and bite him.
A hundred times,
a hundred stings.
Every time
he sees the quiet Witch
and her burning child.
They called:
Circle of the thousand blades
whirled by the breath of many
cutting deep.
But the Judge cannot die.

One by one is offered
on the altar of Mutemaker.
No wound can end the Judge.
Limbs and heads—freed from life.
Deaf.
Blind.
Mute.
He welcomed them
into his world.

When it was done
the walls were red
and the air hung stale.
The Stitchers
would have loved
to return
and craft
in such a place.
The Judge fell on his knees.
Renewed his oath.

All gods I slay.

Godslayer.

·†·

Skreiburg is no longer forever.
No longer am I.
The Judge came, as once foretold.
Perhaps I am not forgotten.

A wounded man moves in shadow,
dagger in his hand—
to end the rebellion,
to kill the newborn Godslayer,
to chain me for aeons.
All repeats
when steel finds its heart.

Once I was the Judge.
With what remains,
I break my own bones.
My arm, free at last,
I tear the candle
from my wax-flesh
It burns
Hot blood runs over bone.
I return to battle.

I throw the candle.
My final strike
hits the assassin’s eye.
He screams once
before my weapon
pierces his skull
and he is gone.

Now all are dead.
If they had not cut my lips,
I would smile.

The Godslayer turns to me,
and I cannot hide from him.

He sees me.
He knows me.

Now he draws Mutemaker
and cuts the rope that holds me up.
The merciless grants mercy.

I fall.
I howl.
I scream.

Oh, bless you, brother.

·†·

The chandelier hits the floor.
Bones break like glass,
rising through windows, walls, and stone.
They whirl into the air,
like ash,
ein Funkenflug,
reaching for the sky.
A thousand little lights
mark the end of an aeon.
From now on,
the day is cut in two.

Chandelier of the sky.
I call you stars.
You died with purpose.
I hope I die the same.

Skreiburg

Sat, 18 Oct 2025 14:36:11 +0000

Stormghosts call a name
Vindman, Wanderer
Wake, time unfolds
Unburied bones
turn to flutes
A melody born
twisting minds
Calling the world
Axetime

Hailstorms
tore through fog and breath
With a KLANG
a furious blacksmith
hammered ice to flame
With a KLANG

No orchestra of ancient pain
could mute eight hooves
Hide, Silence, flee.
Bloodwing
Lightning ignites his path
Thunder—
when he touched the ground

At the Gates of Skreiburg
Festung stark
Built of thorns and wounds
Skulls and bones
And steel and fright
Glued by pain

Vindman—louder! Blow your bonepipes!
The once-mortal came—
blinded.
Deaf.
Yielding battlecries
He cannot hear
Mutemaker on his side
craving souls
Your end—or mine.

Skreiburg!
No longer stronghold
Mausoleum, Tombstone, Deathbed

Old stones moved in ache
The heart of the sky
forgot its beat
But time moved
So did Skreiburg

Armored men gathered on the walls
Spears, arrows, swords, stones
No-one dared to attack
the blinding fire
anathema
and ire
staring from the two holes
in the eternal judge’s skull

Igarth! Igarth!
Prevent the bloodshed!
The ever-flying snake
crawled behind the moon
They knew the signs

Mjöln! Come to aid!
Carrier of disease
Body-Dweller
Buried deeper into caves
They knew the signs

Unheard calls
warriors’ fear of death
One step of Bloodwing
made the bells shiver in terror
their unholy sound
called one long forgotten
one who once broke the fog
dwelled in the chambers—
too long, without a name.

Gates of Skreiburg—
opened wide
Warriors greet your brother—
fellow hunter—
with whom you reigned—
with whom you asked for worship—
as he hailed you
with a grim look
And a soul long withered

Dog-Beast!
Once a rebel
A Stray
Hero of this world
You cut the fog
Became the first father
of this blasphemy
we call home
Walk away
Be free
You deserve
our bows
not my sword.

The beast roared
voice formed by pain
muted by his own blood
Teeth ground
Tired
Weary
Already gone
The Vindman blew
his funeral tune
on bird bones

Too long have I been gone
Nothing good dwells in me
I forgot the new world
But with the old, I must leave
A needle necklace
cuts me every day
Pay your debt:
remove it from my dead body
Or I’ll rip out your heart
Chew it
Spill it
Swallow it whole
and return to my warm cell
to drown again
in the spring of blood
the slave necklace opened.

Dog-Beast howled;
an army of a thousand voices
Earth shattered
His wives on earth
Felt their husband—
for the first time in endless eons

Warriors on the wall
Joined his battle cry

Trembled down the heavenly path—
Kill. Or die.
Massive body, grown through centuries
Flower of regret
Odem of pest
Smell of molding flesh,
dead bodies, cold blood.

The judge drew Mutemaker—
breath of doubt
Hands shook
After all these sacrifices
Fatekeeper! Hast thou forsaken me?
No man could stand against this beast
Prepare to die
Void awaits
All is lost

Thunder rolled over heaven
but the clouds didn’t dare
to make a sound
Hammer-hooves struck the beast
Yellow teeth buried deep
in horse flesh torn
Neighs in pain
Clouds turn red
Raining blood—
Spoke to mortals, down on earth:
Time has come.
Screams of the beast
echoed the halls of Skreiburg
As its skull broke
And its eyes oozed out

The senseless judge
was deaf to pain
blind to pain
He watched over
Bloodwing’s sacrifice
Mutemaker growled in hunger
Not yet
Not yet
Your turn will come
to feast on warriors
and Gods.

The forgotten beast
and the newborn hero
Remnants of the old
cracked in heaven’s dome
broke up its cloudy skin
Holes formed everywhere
The judge saw the earth
and mankind stared at him
Some openings
lead elsewhere
into the pitch black:
The Gap.
Even he shivered
when he saw the beginning
of the ancient
and its end

Gods, beasts, mortals

feared.
Fear.

Fear the Gap.

A final howl of pain
and hunger
Dog-beast cut a throat
Eight hooves knew they’d die
But not alone
Strong Bloodwing
spread his blood-soaked wings
noble, pushing one more time
Both beasts lost their hold
entangled they fell
Warriors lacked sight
through the fog of blood
No one ever knew
which hole they have chosen
But their screams
turned to laughter
and echoed on for years

Skreiburg.
Your gate opened for me.
Now you are mine.
Warriors on the walls:
Let me pass
Or give Mutemaker
what it demands.
You, in whole.

A shadow moved across the battlefield.
Passed holes, passed blood
Mankind hailed
The walls remained in silence

Fatekeepers, you kept your promise.
Now it is time to keep mine.

Skreiburg.
Heart in the cloud.
Now you beat for me.

The once-mortal man entered.

Bloodwing

Fri, 12 Sep 2025 20:13:00 +0000

Vomit of the earth
Abandoned by Death, by Worm
His burning heart stares upwards–
The dome of the gods, too far.

Animals died from his touch.
He built stairs made of corpses.
Stitched goose wings on his back—
Yet none could lift him close.

In his despair, an Ashflower grew.
Its grey surface—
the memory of a girl,
veiled in a ghostly shimmer.

Do you dream of me?

He plucked her.
Killed her.
breathed—
upon the ash-corpse bloom.

Return.

From root grew a green-eyed cat.
He fed her goose bones—
breathed again—
upon life's false face.

Become.

Flame beast dance for me.
My moth and bride
I am the candle—
yet you turn away.

Be gone.

The stitchers made it once—
stitched the gray gods,
stitched the world.
Now he must stitch his own.

He slew his older self.
Took grim old bones,
stitched rotting flesh to bone,
poured his blood to its veins.
Conquered the realm of roots,
flooded his dry body—
taken from Earth's ancient wound.

Black fluid pumps his
slow,
beating,
heart.

Be one.

A gentle breath.
Ashes burn again.
Kiss of the dead.
Birth where none should be.

It grew into a horse.

Blood-red magic,
stolen from the sun
Eyes—empty depth,
sealing the wells of earth.

One wing of a swan,
one wing of a goose.
Eight feet—three ears.
Fur of a cat,
eyes of a woman.
One head.

Where hooves hit the ground,
Ashflowers rise again.
Not now—
not yet—
then.
Somewhen.

Be mine.

Flesh-eater horse,
tore the dead bird's wings.

No.

No friend—only a carrier.
Debt of birth, I pay in full.
Nothing more.

I pay the price
for an unasked birth.
You pay the price
for an unwanted revenge.

I serve you only once.

Bloodwing born.

Needlebones

Sun, 17 Aug 2025 20:10:00 +0000

Every inch of him—
To stitchers, worth a needle.
Stitched his rotting flesh.
Pierced his mind.
Forged a patchwork
of their fouling dreams.

His new house of burning pain
kept him warm—and alone.
But not alive.
Centuries passed
until the sun forgot to rise.
He shed his last tears.
Needles grew their rust.

When the stitchers
vanished into leather,
their broken faces
ruled his dreams.

He turned to mortals:
God of desert winds.
Made by nameless makers.
Forged from remains and rust.
Carved into curse.

A forgotten relic now.
Unburied ruler.
Not a king—
A nest of metal and bone.

Echoes haunt the woods.
Who screams his name,
so the world won't forget?

In the stitcher's ruins
He sits on a ruined throne.
Rats stare at what won't die.
He glares back—
and feeds on a screaming spider.
His metal mouth grants no mercy.
The candles blow themselves out.
Even rot recoils
from old Needlebones.

When he comes:
Ravens lose their voice.
Frogs’ throats seal.
Birds unlearned his name
aeons ago.

When the Earth falls mute,
rivers poison,
even stones turn to sand.

Listen—
—
—

The thunder is the bell
and the lights cut the sky.
He aches,
rising from his crumbling throne.

A spine of rusty clockworks
clatters.
Eyes—endless holes. Unblinking.
They see too far.
They stare up high.

The stars flee in terror.
Night breaks—
bleeding dark,
burning bright.

He takes the
human skin
that serves as coat
and kneels
on thorny plates of steel.

He is only one—

Every needle a soul.
Every bone a life—
that should have lived.

—He is many.

Wake, you clockworks:
Wake and grind!
TICK—TOCK—TICK—TOCK—
Scream, Iron!
Clang.
Rust slain to dust.
A choir of pain,
with every turn.
Time must face him now.
When the hour comes.

My wait was eternal
But their death is forever
Unbirth the fog.
No ash. Tyrants! Fall!
Bloodsoaked earth—
womb of the unborn.

Laughter grows in bellow-lungs,
leather-forged,
stitched in pain.
No voice of men.

Cats go blind, singing terror.
Horses fall, their hooves bleeding.
The sign has come.

Star blood is black.
Life vomited him.
None will remain
but dirt.

Unholy Duality

Tue, 22 Jul 2025 20:07:00 +0000

Down here in the dark
alone—with you.
Some call it grave,
I call it womb.

I can't breathe anymore.
But your heart is pounding—
glowing in the dark;
my tired eyes,
open wide.

Did I bring you?
Or did you lead me?

My sacred mind, yours to dwell.
Let me be your skin—
a slave to shield the gaze,
armour made of flesh and bone.

Whispers from a tongue—
so long to touch the Earth and Sun.
You speak no right, no wrong.
So do I. So do I.

Mouth—a hole so dark and deep,
full of snakes and empty words.
You say nothing that is warm;
my mouth turns as cold as yours.

Your eyes reflect cold and gray.
A pit of dogs, a grave of kids.
Your backbone is made of folded steel.
Stop. Now you look me in my eyes.

I sacrifice my wasted body,
carve out my soul,
fill it with fog
so they can't see.

I cut myself:

Ears—I cut them off.
No need to hear the screams.

Eyes—shut by piercing.
Nose—gone are the flowers.
Lips—stitched.
Tongue—ripped.
No more curse to say.
Ribs—broken, a dug-out grave.
Wrists—emptied river of blood.
Again, the lips.
I cut. And stitch.
It never ends.

And then I take what makes me man
and what makes me human
what makes me sane
and finally alive.

Whirlwind of your blade:
I, the father,
offer you what is left of the mother's milk—
blood.
grow, feed on me.
Your cold arms—
shelter me with steel.

My name is yours—
and yours is mine.
Melting stars—
nameless light.

You grow on me, I grow into you.
I planted my pain.
Sickle: cut what's yours.
And time—
Are you time?
Or fog?

While the worms claim my flesh.
I see the temple at last—
not buried in the mud
but built in your rotting womb,
the host of souls.

A Temple.
Of no gods.
No light.
Nothing may remain.

I am you.
And you are me.
No longer human.
No longer sword.
Did you drink my soul?
Or did I drink yours?

When you die.
I die.
When you live.
I can't.

All that lives—eat my flesh.
I no longer need this husk.
Useless—
blind, I finally see.

Then the stars again.
No more mud.
I no longer breathe earth—
farewell, kingdom of dirt.
You led?
I led?
Who thinks about this?

Ah—
I breathe.
Night air.
Owls.
Let me fly with you.

I return.
Reborn as sword,
not man
nor woman—
something in between.
Made of human meat—
or what is left.

You? Me? Us.
Hunt is on.
I come for you.

Mutemaker

Mon, 23 Jun 2025 20:05:00 +0000

No woman bore me.
Woven was I,
from fog and breath–
an ash-child.
Her lullabies–
echoes from kin long dead.
A lie named dreams.

In this world of pain and ash,
I found a flower.
Like me: made of mold,
burning like the fabled sun.

Loved her. Kissed her.
Called her name.
The Gods exhaled–
and wove us a child
that binds us both,
and forever
makes us worship
those who breathe the fog.

With her,
and my child,
I forgot
to dream.

Horned riders–
executioners of my hopes–
sitting high
on their pale horses.
They show their teeth;
their grin:
dead wolves.

They do not ask–
they do not search–
they just take her–
and the unborn child.
Toothless mouths howl in joy
as they watch them burn to ash.

She did not dance–
but her ash sealed my lids.
She did not scream–
but the noise made me deaf.

While she smiled, burning:
the charred child was
reborn inside my breast.
Whispers lullabies,
soaked in blood.
While I should be the one
to speak of fairies.

Her eyes are strong,
but I want to die.
I am nothing without you.
Helpless fool.

May I carve out the pain,
open the wound,
release the pus–
with steel:
Mutemaker.

Blade of steel, black as wind,
your edge cuts fog itself.
Pommel heavy, shaped for skulls,
yet your weight—a sparrow’s breath.

It tears tongues;
unburies lies;
blinds eyes;
deafens ears.

Mute my enemies.

The smell of iron
drowns men in fear.
And calls the grief
once drowned in silence.

Made by the man of stitches:
brother of Needlebones–
abandoned long ago.

Man and Woman
stitched as one.
Muscles and womb,
formed as one.
Son and daughter
of the Stitchers.

Witchdance

Thu, 12 Jun 2025 19:53:00 +0000

Fog and pain make omens travel fast–
When the old seeress entered–
the rift of Alfir–
united with the slain giant–
returned bearing sight–
and opened her eyes–
as her servants dug her grave.

She saw:

the stray
unleashed
howling in the pitch-black darkness

hunting
feasting

Hunger
Lust.

She carved the prophecy
in the undying willow.
The ink, her blood.
Her nails, the quill.

Children will be born–
To end what never ends–
To bear oblivion–

Fog crawls back to soil.

The Grey sent the stray
to the hall of broken limbs.
Their horned soldiers search
women who broke the only law:
no love–but only fog–
shall birth what serves the Gods.

Swords sharp, made by cutting tongues
in the pit of the firesnakes.
Armor made of hardened bones,
from distant Skullhunters.
Their horses pale and gray as ash–
like remains,
from witches burned.

Then they found one.
And she knew.
The mountains
did not echo her voice.
Her shadow
had already left the mirror.
The memories of the dead
rose strong and heavy.
She neared the bonefields,
and those who once were–
remembered her.

A wood-made woman,
crafted from wild oak,
without a womb,
spit her poison:

Uncut, uncut!
You were grown!
What is made of lust
wears an unblessed womb!

Venom in her eyes,
needles in her heart.
The old envy the young–
none shall have
what she cannot.

Deathspells from a Dead Womb

Thu, 05 Jun 2025 19:51:00 +0000

Nor night nor day was known to men.
All that lived was made, not born.
From animal dead they built my body.
And their foggy breath gave me life.

Not made a son–I am a walking corpse.
Their soldier. Warrior. A dog of war.
Who can love a beast of fog?
All shudder at my stench and form.

Brothers of fog and grey, gathered at one table—
feasting on mortals’ pain, between gamble and wine.
Fed me their bones, adorned me in steel–
Chain of needles forged from torment, a necklace of pain.

Drunk from wine, they dream of golden times
I took the keys from Needlebones' spine
The chains of a slave silently kiss the floor
I run free. My howl–an omen. The days will come.

The necklace burns deep.
Scars don't know time–
Like their brothers:
Stars, yet unborn.
No end to endless pain.

Yet freedom dies quickly.
They'll find me.
Return me.
Bind me.
Again.

May they sleep in dreamless nights,
wander through the woods
they have emptied of life,
and never return.
Haunt forever.
Ghosts.

The smell.
Blood on the wind.

I smell. I remember.
Forgotten is my ruin.

No swords split these veins.
Bloodshed! Women's spell–magic gift.
The only blood that brings life.

All thoughts burst like glass.
The beast is all I am.
No longer can I see.
My vision blurred.
My heart, a war drum.
I am possessed
by lust and agony.

Here I am, the stray,
lover to the grey gods' wives.
For decades, their slave;
When they sleep,
tonight, I rise as their god.