𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐍

Life is a fleeting thing—So take it. Destroy it. Turn it into something truly beautiful, splayed organs and blood.

Misery, agony, satisfaction, pleasure. Inhibitions are made only for the weak.

Glorious, righteous violence. Keeps her comforted in its rain of gore and viscera. Intoxication at its finest.

Be honest with one’s self. There is so much darkness that lives inside that chasm one calls their mind. A utopia of malice exists, and all beings with higher thought have it. Are capable of grasping it. It merely takes the effort of reaching out.

Their misery made her wet.

Yet, Slan was some so of blight upon her eyes? Taking was a far more pleasurable notion than merely accepting. Imposing one’s will upon a lesser, inferior, weaker being was phenomenal. The despair of lesser creatures was… How could she put this?

Even her dearest Aensland kept company this evening? So wonderful. So delightful. So very much holier than thou.

People who carry the scent of death upon them like rose cologne. Such people as those enticed her most.

Slan is watching with amusement and the expectation he will see this through to its end. O’, how wonderful he is. Now he’s got five more to go.

Self mutilation is best done with a senseless conviction and an aim to excel.

Make it 70. Commit to it.

There is nothing but delight in the lecherous nature of true unyielding evil. To be the most free of them all, free of the supposed weight of sin and even more free still of the thing fools call conscience.

Ever the eccentric, was the whore who’s hair so reminded her of entrails and other beautiful things.

The flesh, bone, marrow and organs of things that were once living are so very beautiful. Vivid, steaming and hot. Flourishes of reds, burgundy, and links. Speckled with splashes and shards of white. A mosaic of ephemeral agony and bloodied ruination.

“Too late for that now, isn’t it?” That smile, all knowing and all satisfied tilted with the motion of her head. Tendrils of hair wriggling languidly in the cool, damp air. “You’re tense. Are you nervous?” He had every right to be, as Slan did enjoy her games.

“Quite the flatterer.” The Godhand purred, a voice which tilted somewhere between some sort of affection and something instinctively malicious. Appealing and rising like a miasma of ill intentions and unspoken atrocities. Watching impassively, as if he were drying paint.

Regarding he with an indiscernible gaze, her smile persists and she muses, “I do it as it suits me. More often than not it suits me.” There was no real need to explain herself, she was merely as she was after all.