A Prayer Book (Journal)

[Thrysta]

The girl found me in the Valley this eve.
The warlock, the wayward one.

Crimson on white.
Blood spraying across an endless white canvas.
My sparse breath, sanguine mist, clouds of soft pink in the cold.

She fought by my side.
She fought ahead.
She fought behind.
She murdered and was torn in turn.
My magics licked her wounds when I could find her.
She smells less like prey now.

In the Towers.
Fighting for territory.
Meaningless.
I just know it is where they come.
They know they come for gain.
I know they come to die.

Tearing them open.
Burying my teeth in warmth.
Spitting blood.
My own.
Theirs.

I put one's eyes out with her own broken bone.

Glimmers of excitement.
When they begin to scream.

Glimmers of melancholy.
When their blood no longer sprays.
I wish they would bleed forever.

I just want them to die to screaming.
Who, he asked.

Everyone.

[Thrysta]

There are moments amidst what I do
when lucidity and the uncommon
coincide

A gesture
An action
A voice

that cuts through the red veil
and I find myself wondering
thoughtful and mindful
of what it would be like to just

be

to live
without the death
without the murder
without the blood in my mouth
and the flesh under my nails

someone
something
somewhere

makes me take pause
and wonder

and then

when the terror
of this thought passes
I take solace in knowing

that everyone will fucking die
and that there are so many left

for me to kill.

[Thrysta]

There are those within
Those of The Word

Grim

And those without
those who die first___ _

I am so very tired.
exhaustion brings introspection  I do not____

Atrocity approaches the mundane
ribs that spread like wings
just meat
beauty devolving into horror
just the way of things

My way of things____ __ _

I sit here
writing
wrapped in days of blood
figuratively
for each day brings more
literally
for I can taste it in my mouth
feel it drying on my wasted skin and bone

They do not see me with Wilek.
This is good.
I am somewhat
nostalgic
in his presence

I remember my kindness
such lies lies LIeS lieS lIes
I remember my nuturing
such delusionsoh mercy I miss them or do I
I remember my protectiveness
such dichotomy

I remember being that which I never was

Nostalgia for illusions.

But there were times when I was
Happy?
Content?
When I just was?

I am
melancholy
I find some measure of
confusion in this
maybe even some pleasure in my
Mood? 
because perhaps it means

I am approaching the end.

I wonder if my children can forgive me

[Thrysta]

I am wearing vermillion.
I taste scarlet____ __ _

I think it would be for the best
if they died

who_ __

All of them.

The Word last.
They should see The End.

I am somewhat melancholy
for I wish
those that die
could see me

take the fucking hearts of those they care about
while holding their hands
and telling them
there is nothing left to live for

I want them to hurt
even after they scream their last
even after they fall
even after I taste their flesh
even after I open them up
even after I realize

that they did not want what I gave them
a reprieve
from watching everything that speaks to them
fucking die

Kill me.
I do not think you can__ _ ___ __ _

[Thrysta]

I play the nursemaid? guardian? arbiter?


Mother__ __ _ _  _
No no No NO no NO No NO nO nO no no___ _ _ __

Lucidity waxes and wanes.

Our dear High Inquisitor
Acherontia
I hate do I hate anymore anyone hate her?

she has me watching our younger untested
unproven unworthy?
brethren.

I watch
I listen
I kill

The rogue girl and the she-druid.
My
companions
for the evening
eloquent blades
matched to a tongue that is not their equal
I watch and ponder and judge?
While wondering what her eyes taste like

I remember when I found such
proclivities shameful

now they are as unconscious as
breath?
heartbeat?
Such irony.

I will never be able to kill enough
I am slowly accepting this
So I do what our fucking High Inquisitor
has tasked me with

a deathmother
a bloodmaid

Nursing our young with atrocity and violence

Some will fail

I will give what is left of them back to our
oh so very
High Inquisitor

And ask for more, with their blood

coating my teeth.

[Thrysta]

Contradictions.
I am somewhat perplexed.
Somewhat
conflicted
somewhat

torn

that very word exacerbates my duality

a lick of my lips in anticipation of atrocity
a pause a shudder at feelings I should not have

toward brethren.

Brethren.

Another word.
A relic.

Of a time when I
lived?
a lie

There are those among The Grim

The Word another word
words words words

who kindle within my ruined breast
a warmth
an affection?
a maternal instinct

that fucking witch

those same brethren
those who I look
fondly upon

are the very same I most envision
dying at my hand
screaming
warm tastes of copper
looking inside them to find what they
are until they are finally just

flesh, nothing more.

So I stand conflicted.

I believe I am experiencing the musings of an
idle mind.

Which simply means I am not killing enough.

I believe this can be rectified.

Tranquility through Murder
Peace through Annihilation.
Hush now, little ones
Deathmother Thrysta is here.

[Thrysta]

Wilek showed me.
Empty.
All three.

I know I was so very terrible to
them but I remember warmth
and joy lies lies liEs LIeS

It hurts.

The witch puts the young in
my care.  I will fail them as I
did my own and they remind
me she reminds me that they
are out there

among those I now put down
torn dead flesh that I tear again

I take wounds and dance
and scream, shatter and flay,
torn and broken in turn and yet

only one hurt matters

I will find them I think I have to
do so or no no no No nO NO

Can I still be good to them?
Can I do one good thing for them?

Can I put them back where they
belong oh mercy please

be good to them once
and kill them again

I have not cried in so very long

[Thrysta]

We found them.
One piece at a time.

Tore and broke and ripped
until the things they had been
used for

had given back my children.

My husband.

One of them had the skull of my
daughter. I tore it from rotting
shoulders.

Something broke inside me.

Everything I have done
Atrocity
Horror

at times will invoke a feeling of
melancholy when I know there
should be regret within me.

There should be a loathing
of myself in response to what
I do.

I understand this.
But I do not feel it.

And yet I could sense the
snap
break
tear
inside me when I visited
violence again on my little ones.
Something destroyed that I
needed.

Wilek could not do
what I did to them all.
I am
happy? 
that I could spare him having to
do such things.

He will be able to go on
in his strange ways
that I love him for.
I am thankful for having felt that.
I hope that was love.

I think I am dying.

I cannot mend what broke.
I cannot find it inside me.

I think this is

acceptable