Wanton sin, want and sin.

Bereft of guilt, they must enter.

Bereft of self, they must join.

Bereft of mercy, they must purge.

Bereft of worry, they will surge.

A sickening radiance withers the dark.

Shadows flee the light.

They find refuge from the blinding burn

Amidst the crevice of desire.

Saved by cold from fire.

A shadow cannot survive the sun,

But must adhere to its subject.

To sever is to break,

And the pieces fall to earth.

A shadow without a puppet.

A purpose without a cause.

A form without a function.

Take flight, Icarus.

A discarded set of armor rose from the grass. Forgotten by even the most devoted of scavengers. Its purpose ignited as it opened its singular eye. Shadow burned away as it retrieved its soul from the broken mess around it. Shambling forward towards the wooden building infront of it...

It was lunch time, and Icarus refused to miss out on the chance to sample the Great Chef's cooking. It was one of many novel experiences to enjoy in this quaint little place it found itself. - Sure the screaming had been a bit much at first but slowly people were starting to calm down as they realized that it meant no harm.

Okay, perhaps calm was a bit of a exageration. It was more like Icarus had politely asked people to stop being so loud and smiled a bit too widely. Revealed a bit too much, and now it was simpler to just avoid rather than confront. "Hoi Chef!" called the cheerful voice from nowhere in particular, spiritual, physical, it held little meaning to the weapon as it took a seat at the counter and carefully picked up an adamatine fork. "What's the special today? I hope you managed to obtain some more of that delicious tortoise. The shell makes such a tantalizing crunch!"

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Pub: 12 May 2025 16:19 UTC

Views: 165