Wed, 12/07/2005 — Bloiffy
The Wanderer awoke, alone, alone again, once more. The wind whistled through pillars, bathed in bleak light. The light of an almost-lost hope.
He pulled himself up, painfully, slowly, inorexorably to his feet, and surveyed himself. Clothes, tattered, torn, worn to shreds, skin blackened and hair shorn, no longer the colour of corn. He staggered out into the misty morn.
"Blorn," he said, mouth full of muck and vomit. His face, once soft and pure like an angel's, was now covered in scars. The mud was only washed away by tears, two rivulets marked cleanly down the sides of his face.
"LO," said the voice of God, high above, high and mighty and soaring above, like the wings of loving love he felt for Mono. Mono, who lay dead, died for him, his sins. His lust. Needs must. He'd do a deal with this God of Hellfire, and bring fire to the Colossi. The voice continued, echoing down upon him: "THOU HAST TO PRITHEE MILADY TO THINE SIXTEENTH COLOSSUS BETWIXT HITHER AND THITHER AND THINE SHALL FIND DEATH IN THE BRINE, CALVIN KLEIN."
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