Her armour, a mishmash of oddments, picked from a thousand battlefields with a magpies eye for perfection. Until only the plink and hiss of its cooling can be heard within the rain. Turning to slag and molten metal all around it. Slaking its edge like a white hot whetstone. Her sword cackling and crackling with the shuddering impacts, as strike after lightning strike coruscates through it into the earth. She hunkers down holding it mundanely above her head.
A screaming blur of all shattering ultra sonic vibrations. Note upon note building towards the climax. Ringing for hours like a tuning fork struck. Her shield Valkyrie crafted steel, sunders any weapon to touch its bright, godlike purity. Light reaches down in benediction before the heavens open and the deluge begins.
Blown away blow dry bar full#
Defiantly punching a hole in a heavy sky, full of storm and smoke. ‘Brunhilde’, the maiden-shield, takes of her voice and makes of it an avalanche of words that roar and shake the land. Show me a sign that my deeds give you pleasure!” The hand be mine.but the harvest is yours. “All father look upon the red fields I’ve sown in your name and feast upon the fruits of my ire. Shield held before her, head down as if in supplication. Hair a wet tangled mask that hides her feelings. She kneels, penitent, her company a clash of well trained steel echoing her move. Drunk on its victims freshly spilt blood. Dripping gore, its evil soul full of child like spite as it sings rowdy songs. A whisper thin, shard of hell, sniggering in malice and glee, is plunged deep, until sheathed in the bodies of the fallen. One eye is blind to this world while the other is fixed untrusting on her forever damned sword. Its claws and teeth a blizzard of edges and spikes. Its voice a rumble of contentment that rattles weary bones. Flies droning.Ī Cheshire cat grins: eyes, teeth and smoke, the ‘Malekin', her spirit animal, stalking, hungry, a vestige of primal power that stands beside her, is both familiar and otherworldly. Steadily, doggedly moving too higher ground across a wasteland of humanity that crunches beneath heavy feet.and stretchs from horizon to shattered horizon. For where she goes her demons follow.įor death is but another battle and Hell a kingdom yet to fall. Offering no hope of salvation in this world or the next. Mere motions of lips mouthed silent as a hopeless prayer. “No more.” So quiet, the words are barely spoken. “No more!” Her voice so loud a thousand crows are startled into flight. Stagnant furs steaming with internal heat. Wraiths dissipating and reforming in battle ranks behind her. She slashes a hand and tightens her raised metal fist. Each a thin tear in sanities fragile meniscus skin-stretched thin behind which stands a swarm of skittering voraciously hungry mouths.
To the on-looker they are flickering forms, half caught images from a nightmare realm, flowing and moving as if too many creatures occupy the same space. The Skurge, a legion of the undead, scavenge souls, sucking the last drop of succulent life force from the maimed, the crippled and the dying. Shattered swords and axes littering a landscape full of charcoal silhouettes against burning skies. *Norsemen stalk through bloody battlefields. My mind: an old Bakelite radio with a wire coat hanger for an aerial, skitters and squalls through the stations of her imagined subconscious:. Grumpy, I sit, eating a glass and a half of charity, wondering what it’s like inside her head? Great clumps of leather straps and studs. Curled up foetal on the line of staffroom chairs. Spattering of tattoos against a religion of piercings. Drags itself away from the endless cycle of grey conformity. The girl with the flaming green (trimethyl borate) hair.
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