~ Intro ~
To all the girls who preferred the dragon over prince charming,
Of untold centuries ago, there was an age in which the myths thou heard as a wee lassie were once our veracity. When fire was our rain, corpses were our broth, and allies were our foes.
Thy townsmen speak of the Primaeval War through the gloats drowned in aged ale. Our history of anguish and suffering. . . spoiled. Ridiculed by dint of a penman’s fallacious ingenuity. Thus, forgotten through generations of creasing pages and smudging ink,
As a lassie, did thou believe such?
Did our bloodshed entertain thou so? Did it? It should. After all, our hides are thy clothing. Our bones are thy trophies. And our babes are thy crop’s nutriment.
Centuries have aged, withering the Primaeval War shrivelled. So of course, thou hast nothing unto fret upon. We’re myths; harmless inspiration thy penmen gorge themselves with. Chapter after chapter, retelling the tedious tales; glorified of fated love unto appease thy repulsive lust with our massacre,
So naturally, why forebode such beasts’ presence already extinct? Why forebode such beasts thou crave unto go bump in the night?
Mythology has breath unto them; if thou actually read between the damned lines. But, thou privileged brats, if thou really sought beyond thy creasing pages smudged of ink as thy King of Camelot, thy meagre minds would be at a loss,
Sweet, credulous loss.
Nay, thou shall prefer if we remain buried; the myths thou heed thy babes, so they become docile little brats.
However thou wish unto perceive such, the lines of ink on crinkle pages have become our captivity. Our dungeons. But, as thou wane, we remain, prying our dungeons apart, one painful generation at a time.
And thy king, as with all the rest, met his most devilish demise at the claws of him; our king. Because the tales which entertained thou wee lassie, the mutilated history of our despair,
They’re all wrong,
Hush, now. Don’t cry. Why art thou crying? Dost, thou think we wept when thou gauged out our eyes and ripped out our teeth as thy reward? Dost, thou think we wept when thou skinned us alive for thy riches?!
Oh, sweet thing, hast I startled thou? I’m sorry. Here, come closer. Please, allow me unto show thou a trick; my father taught it unto me. Before thou slaughtered him! Hush, now. Don’t fret. Come closer,
Good lassie. Now, perceive cautiously as I. . .
Tell me, am I once more a monster thy inspired penmen scribbles fated love of? Dost thou crave unto go bump in the midnight with me? Am I appeasing thy lust sweet, sweet thing?
Thou adorable, privileged little bitch,
Oh, if only thou perceived more than a penman’s inked reverie. If only thou read between the damned lines. Then thou would see, then thou would know,
Of the monsters within. . .
Hush now. He’s here.