Snake eyes, blackflies,
Salamanders too,
All ingredients for my witches brew.
Oh I'm going to make a mess,
That and nothing less,
As my creation rises.
Rise,Rise,RISE!
Ebon sorceress ingresses quietly, twin thorns pricked egarly, nervous of 'er suroundings. Nares distend, dark lamps taking in all that there was to see. Lithe channel brings dial up, mandibles part, shrill proclimation being released. Hind pistions cause tenement to rock back, fore pillars clawing the air. She lands, melanoid filaments bouncing 'pon channel. Pelt of dark silk once again trembles as she awaits someone to approach 'er. Tendrils of 'er filaments had wandered into dark lamps. Dial is shooken to remove them, another discordant snort being emitted following the action. Lithe channel then brings dial downward, mandibles parting to crop a few mouthfuls of the blades that rest just 'neath 'er nails.
Twin thorns remain pricked, swiveling occasionally to pick up sounds that carry 'cross the land. Inside 'er mental cavity her creator once again chants, fingers grasping 'er brain in a cold touch.
Driven by death itself.
Only the satisfaction of slaughter will
cause it to return to the darkness from which it came.
The internal torment is visiable within dark lamps. The look about widly trying to confront the one who enjoyed tormenting her so.
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