"His face slashed,
he wears a mask,
of those he savaged to survive.

A gentle Spirit, undone,
maddened by the Pain
that banes him, and the monster

he's become.  Now he's angled
at anger, and each moment
it lingers, he becomes

a little Stranger.  With a thorn
in his dead Heart, and no Way
to jump start, he only

knows how to be
torn, and only cares
to tear apart."

- The Oracle of Passeridae

THE WEAVE:

Persephone whispers

a riddle, to the Roots

of a Tree…

"To be the kind of
person, who spends
a lot of Time, attempting
to protect other

people, from the lashing
of her own tongue.
That is someTimes what it is
like, to be a veiled Son.

The price of charm, is that,
at the Masque of the Red
Death, the sickness
finds the party, anyWays.

It just arrives
by a different Door,
or late.  I have long been
a Way, but I am

returning, in little Ways,
like the Light, upon
the leaf.  To dare
to receive, but to worry

I am going to hurt,
everybody, and be in helpless
debt, to what gives to me, due
to a bad attitude.

Like Lilitu, not to know
if the wall is stable.
To hop, or not, but either
Way, to listen to the stones."