The Words of Puppets, Fall Beneath Thy Blade

[Pandemonium]

The man walking down the heavily embroidered decorum of the Imperial Court, bore no identifying marks symbolizing his house. His armor was worn with the age, and tarnish of countless battles. His gait was that of a man accustomed to hardened leather of a saddle, and the weight of armor. His sword dripped with the blood of the two skewered guards lying in pools of their own lifeblood, their glazed eyes staring up in death. The tattered remnants of a cloak rustled in the stirring of an unseen breeze. His body shook with a plague with no cure, with no known cure. His eyes were those of one trapped, or cornered. Their irises dark red in contrast to the light blue pupil. Sprouting from his shoulders are two powerful tendons stretching, and expanding into the feathery apparatuses trailing limply behind him. Their once powerful, and majestic feathers ripped and bloody fell like death from the heavens.

His mind was riddled with the voice of one not entirely sane, his mind bearing the plague of one not of flesh but of the mind. His intelligence melting with each passing rotation around the sun’s fulcrum. His armor rattled, and shook like the ringing sound of a bell tolling the dead. His hushed, heavy breathing dragged on like a animal choking on his own saliva. The body continued to die, while the mind existed. It’s only thoughts that of kill, kill, kill the betrayer. His conscious had passed from the prison of his shell. Leaving an empty, hollow mollusk in it’s place with minor primal awareness and instinctual demands upon the prison of it’s existence. The trail of blood, ruining the bright red sheen of the carpet, and the intricately lain designs within the carpeting, It’s tiny, woven cotton tufts forming dragons amongst a fiery grass.

The large, heavy door shook upon their bolts sealing them with the precision of a expert mason. It’s thick stones hiding the cowering artificial ruler, a puppet. His spiritual teaching falling on deaf ears as his mind fell into the pits of insanity. His body was thin and frail, his face that of a weasel. His breath stank of the thick aroma of spices. His eyes, within their sockets were dull, unintelligent. Merely two pieces of marble from an vintage set. He hid behind a large, golden throne. A gift from tamed savages, crushed beneath the might of a Holy Crusade. His tiny teeth chewed on his fingernails, ripping them from the fleshy particles connecting them to their fingering appendages. Blood trailed from the thickly, clenched fist of his other hand. His sharp, animal nails digging into the tender flesh of his palm.

His words fell like poison upon the populace, and his ‘potions’ created plaguing hallucinations. The wall rocked, beneath the inhumanly strength pounding against it. The wall would only last so long before crumbling, and this the puppet religious Pope knew. His holy kingdom, divine in the eyes of God had succumbed the to the evils of the flesh, avarice and intercourse. His holy body carried countless unholy plagues, and his hair was thick with maggots chewing unperturbed amongst the tender roots of hair. The ancient, wizened soldier fell the wall like countless other mighty nations that succumbed to the death that hung like an addicting presence over the ancient forged steel. It’s edge rang like a herd of stampeding bulls.

The ancient man, cowering in his corner beheld a poisoned dagger. Cursed by the evils of the flesh, and sealed with his own life water. The wings of the soldier stirred amongst their broken, crumbled tendons. The few remaining feathers had snagged on the heavy, sharp edges of the debris. The puppet lifted his hand in accordance of the strings pulled by his master marionette. The hand fell like an toppling redwood, and struck through the armor. The puppet’s breath faded, it’s easy rhythm collapsing from the large steel protruding from his midsection. The two sides of the balance crumbled, the wings interlocking with the stained robes. The chiseled face of love amidst that of avarice. The balance could never be changed, the events would be catastrophic, an ending of the world. The two limp forms remained in a interlocking embrace amidst their death. Their bodies symbolizing the good and evil within the soul of each bipedal intellectual organism.

Edited October 16, 2012 by Emotional Outlet