Slithering forward begrudgingly defiant from your masters, you came across the crimson plain without a face to guide you through the faded night. Brooms have prickly stems, it isn’t foolish to say you may not accomplish this. For it is brought forth by he who laden’s you with a slap across the temple. The hand that binds you, makes up ground as it prods you ever so carnivorously. Fangs foaming with the sound of a thousand vipers, smirking as they tantalizingly await a shift in the sand.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger