�� to the skeptical belongs the truth �� -- The Unpredictable Souls

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me off, discourteously.

The wheel of fortune revolved in the firmament, an ecstatic luminous disk that, stained by the blood of innocent, observed impiedous an elusive virago. This night had a sanguine effulgence, a predicament of antics that would take place. The arena was prepared, the lithosphere surrendered to the scythes that, violent and omnious, subjugated their support under a passive submission - their alluring rythm, such as a passacaglia, equilibrating in a single not, a single instrument. Her orchestred movements were as such, her mannerisms, as smooth as any lighter horses� would be. Should the loam react to such impulses, an earthquake would reprimand the scattered carcasses that lingered about, in this encompassment. But the nightmare, a fusion of luminous amplitudes and abysmal profondities. From the recesses of a tormented aura, replicated a clamour, piercing enough to shatter the crystals, a tribal cry, a ripped violin�s string. The bellicous, tenebrous vindication threw herself in a luring locomotion, chords of musculature flexing and un-flexing under that amalgam of light and darkness. Thus the fuselage of a warrioress inflicted it�s presence, aspiring to the omnious potency of those named Unpredictable Souls. Let the battle begin. Surprisingly, the mare collapses to the mud, revolving herself into the dust, fetching a sienna coloration to herself - proclaiming a foul taste on whoever attempted to take a grip on her designed property. Ascending once more, cranium of angulous design pressed against ample thorax, neckline in a formidable crane, as overlapping blades of ironlike flesh protected the lethal veins and arteries. Articulations of flexible pillars click in their locked pose, assuring protection. Conch shells press against poll, another clamour of her presence escavanging from the deepest corners of her nigrescent interior, bloodlust reflected in crystalized iride of ice, that, lugubre, hunt for a prey. A prey to her hunger.

Who�s gonna be my first adversary?
Who�s gonna be the victim of this guillotine?