Cylus 21st, 715
Of a lady, doing maybe, meetings lazy, hopeful baby, ever bumbling. A-rumble, a-tumble, a-stumble. This. Day. Wake up, wake up, walk it, talk it. Open shop, sorting boring, time looming, a lazy day for thee. Creating sinew, bashing dead, chopping sloppy, roiling boiling basting sating, it’s her life to be. She cooked, she cleaned, she served, almost every thing. Ilara the Meatstress, you see, her nightmare was tax accounting.
”Oh these taxes, wielding axes, will somebody save me?”
From the shadows, Abaddon did come to be, lips moving, words roving. “With no doubt, you must pay your taxes, to the city.” Fun. Jovial. Tonight he was lucid, livid, in this night of dastardly soiree.
He sat her down, with her frown, and got her to her tax accounting. She stammered, she yammered, and yet she wrote her numbers, slashed her books, and inked her cooks. “Be merry, please spare me, this tax accounting,” she sung lustlessly. “Am I to run, until undone, this business so busily?”
”Show me, show me, your baleful things, do not hide, you missed that number, you are terrible at tax accounting.” Finger waxing, finger waning, he lingered upon her dismal things. “Do you see, do you see, your mistakes wee? A hundred Nel, it will cost you, your scathing tax accounting.”
Her voice became shrill. “I do my best, day by day, with little rest, spare me please, this tax accounting.”
”I cannot, I cannot spare you, from this tax accounting. Do your best, but do not rest, stay awake, and live your fate, for tax accounting.”
A scream broke the veil, for her truest terror had become reality.
Ever toiling, coils-a-coiling, ‘round her neck this business foiling hopes and dreams. One customer, two customer, Abaddon watches, little trust in her. One by one, she greets and sits, at chairs upon feast, of meats and shit. One by one, they throw a fit, two by two they call her whore, three by three they screech their gall at this ball of grand atrocities.
“Nightmare, nightmare, when will it end? Who can I not offend?” she cried her heart out, in the end.
”Work more, work more, at your store, and stop being such a bore you dirty whore,” he spat his words to the one in agony.
”Please no more, this work abhor’d at my door. Leave me cleaving meats, I’m sore and not a whore.”
”Oh but you must, you must, to keep alive this place and thrive. This torture overture, do you not adore?”
”I truly do not know any more.”
Serving meats, daily greets, she boiled away her skull that day. With skill and supply to meet demand, she served her part in this daily art. Water filling, mug spilling, she cleaned and wiped these human atrocities. The floor was scorned with dirt decor, she could not see what else and so she scrubbed it more, this filth galore. “Save me please, save me please, from this fate I hate, these grand atrocities.”
”Toil you must, for sin and lust, else you bust. Slack not, or slip knot, your choice is but dust,” Abaddon replied over her shoulder, planting seeds so recklessly.
Her crumpled form with dirty mop, she rested wry on pillow cry, a filthy comfort in this ball of grand atrocities.
Dubious devils did dance above, their pitchforks gleaming like darkened doves, from strings like gallows in skies above, they chanced and pranced upon her day, wrecking hapless time to fray. “Ilara, Ilara, did you make us meats today? You slack, I pay no more, give me what I demand, or suffer me and my reprimand,” spoke a gruff man caked in wine and grime, his boots smirching trails of things that did not rhyme.
Risen from floor like putrid zombie, she shambled in brambles of misery, with company so foul she could turn her head like an owl, she paid no heed and began again her day, the miserable woman with a company. “Where oh where are my knives? They’ve all gone to stealing knave, what is wrong with this awful place?”
Abaddon’s fingers glittered, metal cutlery in-between, his crime gone unnoticed, consequence wrote-us most-us by depressed lotus. “Oh delicate flower, oh prime rose, you cannot tarry, lest you be buried,” he whispered freely to her ear.
”Oh little voice in my head, I yearn for dead. Please let me be, can’t you see I am in agony?” Tears streaming, eyes waning, she tried to walk her putrid talk, but she continued at this sad venue. Laying out, cutlery-without, she fulfilled her doubt and met her customer on the reef. Stuck there, plucked of hair, it fell upon the ground and her head turned round by round. “Father, father, it was not my dream, to inherit this company.”
”Do him proud, you baleful slouch, scream no more or walk out that door,” Abaddon told her.
”Give me my just desserts, you wilting hag, before I quit and spit upon your ugly rags,” growled the customer impatiently.
She broke, her mind rupturing of spokes, and she spoke her woes one last time, in poetic poem most sublime. “Restless joy-less day by day, I toil and toil away, for world-a-hurling daily curling, I cannot live this wasted life. Begone you pittance, you ungrateful strife.” Her finger shook and she pointed to the door. The man spit upon her dress, leaving it soiled, before storming out and kicking the door off its hinges. The rain outside began to seep upon the floor, and she knelt in her pool of tears, broken and ashamed.
“Fear not, fear not, be awake, find solace in your fate,” Abaddon cooed, hand upon her shoulder. “Feel me, feel me now, this awful place, how your shoulder aches. Remember, remember, this tale yet rendered, forever and ever, and never see it mender.” As he spoke, his hand squeezed, and her eyes bulged as he gave her a taste of Emea’s corruptive influence. “By Kielik’s name, you feel this way, die in vain, you useless bane.”
From fingers most treacherous surged the lecherous wiles of fixation, from the annals of Abaddon’s wicked mind. To him, she should feel as if the weight of what had transpired in this dream was never ending and dreadful beyond measure. This fixation upon her own inadequacy would bring about oblivion for the woman. This simple, Minor Corruption would haunt her at times most low, and she would not easily forget how truly low she had come, and how her lack of purpose would feel so heavy.
Tendrils of black wisped through the air like a dark fog from Abaddon’s blackened eye as Emea’s black corruption seethed through this downtrodden, depressing Dreamscape. The color of his eye slowly returned to its usual tone as his fingers came away, leaving behind the damage upon her distraught and bereaved mind. “I have shown you the truth,” Abaddon said, “in a time when you must recognize the sleuthing nature of your agonizing ways.”
The humble little shop began to disintegrate like a black goop, the walls folding over and the ceiling eroding away to a black void. A dream marred and slashed by insecurities planted by Kielik’s faithful agent. Abaddon mused at how running a business could stress a life to such degree that they held so many exploitable faults within themselves as the world took on this bleak existence around them.
“Living is pointless without a purpose,” Abaddon continued to poke and pry from his own place of darkness. Watching, studying her as she molted into a chrysalis of self-pity there on the floor. “Let go. Let go, remember my words that you should find solace in the nothingness of Kielik’s embrace.”
Ilara slowly rose, hair matted, dress unkempt and frayed, still marred by spittle from moments ago. “Please...” she whined.
”You’re weak,” Abaddon scathed.
No music composed, the last breath Ilara took was one of desperation, of crushing misery. Her emotions flared so brightly that she awoke at once to a dismal reality, crying at her bedside as Abaddon was thrusted from her Dreamscape, himself able to catch some well-needed rest as if by some cruel reward of his nightmarish God.
As Abaddon retraced her steps the next day, he found the business closed. There was a crowd of people outside, the Etzori standing guard and letting not a soul pass. Whispers and rumors echoed among the crowd, but Abaddon had a hunch. In this world of reality, it was hard not to feel the slightest pang of guilt for what happened, but by the cries through that door and the body the soldiers were hauling out of a repugnant man dripping with crimson, he could tell that she’d snapped the very next day. The mind is such a fragile and weak thing. I do wonder if Kielik will find her and that void in her heart.
Of a lady, doing maybe, meetings lazy, hopeful baby, ever bumbling. A-rumble, a-tumble, a-stumble. This. Day. Wake up, wake up, walk it, talk it. Open shop, sorting boring, time looming, a lazy day for thee. Creating sinew, bashing dead, chopping sloppy, roiling boiling basting sating, it’s her life to be. She cooked, she cleaned, she served, almost every thing. Ilara the Meatstress, you see, her nightmare was tax accounting.
”Oh these taxes, wielding axes, will somebody save me?”
From the shadows, Abaddon did come to be, lips moving, words roving. “With no doubt, you must pay your taxes, to the city.” Fun. Jovial. Tonight he was lucid, livid, in this night of dastardly soiree.
He sat her down, with her frown, and got her to her tax accounting. She stammered, she yammered, and yet she wrote her numbers, slashed her books, and inked her cooks. “Be merry, please spare me, this tax accounting,” she sung lustlessly. “Am I to run, until undone, this business so busily?”
”Show me, show me, your baleful things, do not hide, you missed that number, you are terrible at tax accounting.” Finger waxing, finger waning, he lingered upon her dismal things. “Do you see, do you see, your mistakes wee? A hundred Nel, it will cost you, your scathing tax accounting.”
Her voice became shrill. “I do my best, day by day, with little rest, spare me please, this tax accounting.”
”I cannot, I cannot spare you, from this tax accounting. Do your best, but do not rest, stay awake, and live your fate, for tax accounting.”
A scream broke the veil, for her truest terror had become reality.
Ever toiling, coils-a-coiling, ‘round her neck this business foiling hopes and dreams. One customer, two customer, Abaddon watches, little trust in her. One by one, she greets and sits, at chairs upon feast, of meats and shit. One by one, they throw a fit, two by two they call her whore, three by three they screech their gall at this ball of grand atrocities.
“Nightmare, nightmare, when will it end? Who can I not offend?” she cried her heart out, in the end.
”Work more, work more, at your store, and stop being such a bore you dirty whore,” he spat his words to the one in agony.
”Please no more, this work abhor’d at my door. Leave me cleaving meats, I’m sore and not a whore.”
”Oh but you must, you must, to keep alive this place and thrive. This torture overture, do you not adore?”
”I truly do not know any more.”
Serving meats, daily greets, she boiled away her skull that day. With skill and supply to meet demand, she served her part in this daily art. Water filling, mug spilling, she cleaned and wiped these human atrocities. The floor was scorned with dirt decor, she could not see what else and so she scrubbed it more, this filth galore. “Save me please, save me please, from this fate I hate, these grand atrocities.”
”Toil you must, for sin and lust, else you bust. Slack not, or slip knot, your choice is but dust,” Abaddon replied over her shoulder, planting seeds so recklessly.
Her crumpled form with dirty mop, she rested wry on pillow cry, a filthy comfort in this ball of grand atrocities.
Dubious devils did dance above, their pitchforks gleaming like darkened doves, from strings like gallows in skies above, they chanced and pranced upon her day, wrecking hapless time to fray. “Ilara, Ilara, did you make us meats today? You slack, I pay no more, give me what I demand, or suffer me and my reprimand,” spoke a gruff man caked in wine and grime, his boots smirching trails of things that did not rhyme.
Risen from floor like putrid zombie, she shambled in brambles of misery, with company so foul she could turn her head like an owl, she paid no heed and began again her day, the miserable woman with a company. “Where oh where are my knives? They’ve all gone to stealing knave, what is wrong with this awful place?”
Abaddon’s fingers glittered, metal cutlery in-between, his crime gone unnoticed, consequence wrote-us most-us by depressed lotus. “Oh delicate flower, oh prime rose, you cannot tarry, lest you be buried,” he whispered freely to her ear.
”Oh little voice in my head, I yearn for dead. Please let me be, can’t you see I am in agony?” Tears streaming, eyes waning, she tried to walk her putrid talk, but she continued at this sad venue. Laying out, cutlery-without, she fulfilled her doubt and met her customer on the reef. Stuck there, plucked of hair, it fell upon the ground and her head turned round by round. “Father, father, it was not my dream, to inherit this company.”
”Do him proud, you baleful slouch, scream no more or walk out that door,” Abaddon told her.
”Give me my just desserts, you wilting hag, before I quit and spit upon your ugly rags,” growled the customer impatiently.
She broke, her mind rupturing of spokes, and she spoke her woes one last time, in poetic poem most sublime. “Restless joy-less day by day, I toil and toil away, for world-a-hurling daily curling, I cannot live this wasted life. Begone you pittance, you ungrateful strife.” Her finger shook and she pointed to the door. The man spit upon her dress, leaving it soiled, before storming out and kicking the door off its hinges. The rain outside began to seep upon the floor, and she knelt in her pool of tears, broken and ashamed.
“Fear not, fear not, be awake, find solace in your fate,” Abaddon cooed, hand upon her shoulder. “Feel me, feel me now, this awful place, how your shoulder aches. Remember, remember, this tale yet rendered, forever and ever, and never see it mender.” As he spoke, his hand squeezed, and her eyes bulged as he gave her a taste of Emea’s corruptive influence. “By Kielik’s name, you feel this way, die in vain, you useless bane.”
From fingers most treacherous surged the lecherous wiles of fixation, from the annals of Abaddon’s wicked mind. To him, she should feel as if the weight of what had transpired in this dream was never ending and dreadful beyond measure. This fixation upon her own inadequacy would bring about oblivion for the woman. This simple, Minor Corruption would haunt her at times most low, and she would not easily forget how truly low she had come, and how her lack of purpose would feel so heavy.
Tendrils of black wisped through the air like a dark fog from Abaddon’s blackened eye as Emea’s black corruption seethed through this downtrodden, depressing Dreamscape. The color of his eye slowly returned to its usual tone as his fingers came away, leaving behind the damage upon her distraught and bereaved mind. “I have shown you the truth,” Abaddon said, “in a time when you must recognize the sleuthing nature of your agonizing ways.”
The humble little shop began to disintegrate like a black goop, the walls folding over and the ceiling eroding away to a black void. A dream marred and slashed by insecurities planted by Kielik’s faithful agent. Abaddon mused at how running a business could stress a life to such degree that they held so many exploitable faults within themselves as the world took on this bleak existence around them.
“Living is pointless without a purpose,” Abaddon continued to poke and pry from his own place of darkness. Watching, studying her as she molted into a chrysalis of self-pity there on the floor. “Let go. Let go, remember my words that you should find solace in the nothingness of Kielik’s embrace.”
Ilara slowly rose, hair matted, dress unkempt and frayed, still marred by spittle from moments ago. “Please...” she whined.
”You’re weak,” Abaddon scathed.
No music composed, the last breath Ilara took was one of desperation, of crushing misery. Her emotions flared so brightly that she awoke at once to a dismal reality, crying at her bedside as Abaddon was thrusted from her Dreamscape, himself able to catch some well-needed rest as if by some cruel reward of his nightmarish God.
As Abaddon retraced her steps the next day, he found the business closed. There was a crowd of people outside, the Etzori standing guard and letting not a soul pass. Whispers and rumors echoed among the crowd, but Abaddon had a hunch. In this world of reality, it was hard not to feel the slightest pang of guilt for what happened, but by the cries through that door and the body the soldiers were hauling out of a repugnant man dripping with crimson, he could tell that she’d snapped the very next day. The mind is such a fragile and weak thing. I do wonder if Kielik will find her and that void in her heart.
