Cold Stream

No vein of literary expanse can fathom to designate, the premise of such ghastly ordeal; the more preternatural proportions of the oblique and horrifying, hemorrhaging fourth from the rayless temples of whatever ambit, abounds beyond. I shall however, pardon myself the vain pursuit of plausible victory, by giving flesh to the countenance of the article, as it reads from the rims of my bosom. I was upon an ebony steed upon that inclement noon, when beside the effervescent streams of a lake, I saw a nude woman of lofty stature and svelte tournure. Her person, endowed a sort of picturesque quintessence to the dreary scene, but there was something eerie about the torpid abeyance of her station. It felt as if it were some unequivocal admonition, warranting anxiety induced chariness, but I did not recede my reins. I alighted from my altitude, remembering my limbs, and ofcourse the warm woolen cloth that embraced my breastplate. From the might of my fortitude, I ambled towards the woman who gazed at the stream, with her back turned towards me. I could only perceive her undulating ash blonde hair, from this position of locus. Closer and closer I protruded, until I was congratulated by a decent summit of proximity where the semblance of my acquaintance was revealed to me ruefully, such as in the conscious of Victor Frankenstein upon perception of his monster. Curse the damned thing, it was not a woman nor human, for it did not bear anything upon its visage save for an elongated mouth, barely occluding an obscene plethora of amorphous yellowy teeth. Before I could flee, it withdrew a Rondel dagger from my waist bound sheath, and incised its swan like neck, before descending into the lake, and suddenly evanescing. The water turned crimson, and presently I heard the overwrought neigh of my steed, as it galloped yonder the forest, rapturing an unkindness from the highest bough.