HOME | DD

Description
An ocean of black, a veil of death, and a chasm I will not cross. Decisions; a crossroad that has too many paths for a coin to determine. Why do such things fall before me? Nothing is sacred, a tide of regret fills this icy cavern. I think something was there, yes, an oblivion touching my irises. A message, scrawled in stone, carves its way upon the pane of glass that is my soul. Do I have one still? Perhaps, perhaps...I simply misplaced it?

The corridor before thy blistered eyes is consecrated by the sanguid tears of the past, broken by the burden of your sins. A cry in the gloom, a final call to thy soul. Do you feel nothing? Claw forth, bring blood to your hands - this time your own, and scream for solice. Mercy? You, who gave none to the siren of your heart, now call for such a warmth as retribution? No, upon the raven's wing you shall not fly, devoid of affliction to your passion...

The end is nigh, painted by Death's formal hand, and no light, no daring knight, will dare tread here. Take to silence, for she is sacred, eyes broken - undaunted by the hatred of those burning souls. Honor is a word lost to these sands that spin in a pane of crystal. Mercy's love is shattered upon the drum's beat, and courage has fled - not from his dreaded brother fear - but from his dear brother, torment. As the enemy grows near, draw thy blade, and find that your hatred is it's ill reflection. Conquest is here on his fiery horse, and - lo! -, your will is shattered.

Silver is absolution, sanctuary in between immortal strife and mortal delight. War has formed here, the links of a brother's iron bond broken by famine. Greed is sure to follow, for each his own wishes release from such bound ways. The sheen of a warrior's irises, strikes fire upon their souls, and a blade draws crimson in the gloom. Thirteen pillars circle the thrall, the long spanning azure of midning, - a lit by torches - framing their resolve. Life has become hallowed, but forgotten among the ruins of a memory, and now they feel little. Concious emotion is a drifting ghost, fathomless eyes finding nothing of what was lost.

Description
An ocean of black, a veil of death, and a chasm I will not cross. Decisions; a crossroad that has too many paths for a coin to determine. Why do such things fall before me? Nothing is sacred, a tide of regret fills this icy cavern. I think something was there, yes, an oblivion touching my irises. A message, scrawled in stone, carves its way upon the pane of glass that is my soul. Do I have one still? Perhaps, perhaps...I simply misplaced it?

The corridor before thy blistered eyes is consecrated by the sanguid tears of the past, broken by the burden of your sins. A cry in the gloom, a final call to thy soul. Do you feel nothing? Claw forth, bring blood to your hands - this time your own, and scream for solice. Mercy? You, who gave none to the siren of your heart, now call for such a warmth as retribution? No, upon the raven's wing you shall not fly, devoid of affliction to your passion...

The end is nigh, painted by Death's formal hand, and no light, no daring knight, will dare tread here. Take to silence, for she is sacred, eyes broken - undaunted by the hatred of those burning souls. Honor is a word lost to these sands that spin in a pane of crystal. Mercy's love is shattered upon the drum's beat, and courage has fled - not from his dreaded brother fear - but from his dear brother, torment. As the enemy grows near, draw thy blade, and find that your hatred is it's ill reflection. Conquest is here on his fiery horse, and - lo! -, your will is shattered.

Silver is absolution, sanctuary in between immortal strife and mortal delight. War has formed here, the links of a brother's iron bond broken by famine. Greed is sure to follow, for each his own wishes release from such bound ways. The sheen of a warrior's irises, strikes fire upon their souls, and a blade draws crimson in the gloom. Thirteen pillars circle the thrall, the long spanning azure of midning, - a lit by torches - framing their resolve. Life has become hallowed, but forgotten among the ruins of a memory, and now they feel little. Concious emotion is a drifting ghost, fathomless eyes finding nothing of what was lost.