Aftermath of the Onslaught _A tale of the black massacre.

My waning visceral faculty can only be manifested, on a diminutive trajectory of efficiency, and for the nonce I can only hope, that some intervention of serendipity, alters that impending, author of the epitaph. My limbs quiver to no avail, and I cannot presently wring my eyes of that defective bleach of myopia. The warm scent of hemorrhage, has become egregiously poignant, but cannot affirm itself, to any puncture of effusion. I grimace at the thought, that any vital organ, has been affected collaterally, and thus will be otiose forevermore. Indeed my vessel has been impaired, by the invasion of those monsters, I can still hear them wreck all that we have built into deplorable dilapidation. The axis of my incumbency, let alone my location at this point is unknown to me, and the only residue left in the well of memory, is that of the primeval advent of the invasion. Alas, I can feel that I am being dragged, by some receding force, my only wish is that, it is not those villains. There is a light, proliferating my newfound visual hymen, it is that of the noonday sun, dredged from the motley phantasmagoria of fallible iridescence. It is clear that I was under a half enclosing concave of debris, occluded from the sun and inaccessible to those raving fiends. The inclement acoustics of my proximity, are quite audible despite their capricous obscenity. There is a pause, and the unclear portrait of my retriever, is cast unto my impaired lens. It is an old woman that speaks,

"The massacre will not end, they bathe in human blood, they have no mercy! It is by the Lord's grace that I found you amidst all that .... mayhem!" I feel her cold palm rest upon the fleshy cleft of my rib, and I gasp for the sensation is altogether unexpected.

"The lesion is of profound depth, but the bleeding is no longer profuse, I am fairly surprised your conscious has any grain of lucidity " she affirms, before touching my lids, and widening them, and continuing,

"Ah yes, I suppose in your confrontation with that grotesque creature, you had some contact with its saliva and it has sustained a portion of your senses awhile, rest here I shall return" and she elopes from my view for some time, before returning,

"Drink it please, it will heal you" she implores as she rests what feels like a cup upon my tender abeyant lip, and I imbibe whatever import is in it. Dear lord it tastes profane, and it feels like magma, descending insufferably into the gut. I feel a strange ache tatter my nerves, but it is not long before I can sense, vaguely, the recoupment of my spirits, and the engorgement of life. My filmed eyes shed that pervasive impediment of holistic prospect, with a springtime ecdysis. It is unfortunate that my sight, has been cleansed, unto the horror of such revelations. The abode crumbles, in the gangrenous desolation of a dreary miasm. I arise in the precocious subordination of sinew, to further scrutinize the incongruous arrangement of the apathetic scene, as the weight of a long endured depression encumbers my bosom. It is a slovenly plethora of books on the floorboards and paintings of demonic iconography barely hanging upon the termite infested walls, while the monomaniac quintessence of the color black, is illustrated at every portion. The vile hedonism of dysfunctional practice, remains evident in the eldritch artifacts abound, the furthest corners of the precinct. I gasp when I decipher my counterpart. Her person is grotesque, with long slovenly hair, a hunchback, and a visage of pronounced senescence, with uncouth lineaments of vulgar discontentment. Her adornment is mere drapes and beads. She covers her face, exposing those shamelessly elongated, black nails, and I hear her speak with a shriek,

"Yes I am wretched, and unlovely, spare me the sight of your vomit! I was the one who made the monsters, but I assure you, the massacre was never apart of the agreement. I also loathe what has ensued, the knights have fallen, and the paupers are dead!" Here the speaker pauses, and paces towards me, with a synovial saunter and grabs my hand, before placing a dagger in my palm.

"You must kill me, and they will also die, yes, end it now and my children will wither" and just as she speaks, I hear a quake, from beneath. One of the creatures erupts from the cottage floorboards. The vulturine head, and the large humanoid body endowed with four lengthy gaunt arms is a sight to behold but is not a dimunitive account to the scene of the old woman offing herself with the dagger, and rapturing into a thousand spiders along with the beast!?