The limelight spurts,
spits, splutters towards cruel crimson.
The Mistress of Ceremonies steps into the circle;
heeled boots and fishnet for confidence;
tapping her thigh with her white leather crop.
Her dilated pupils silence the inebriate crowd.
We do not bring you -
it comes of its choice -
the finale.
Pray silence! Pray darkness! Pray fear!
And remember against all remembrance,
that you all have bones.
Lights out - the darkness shines.
Invincible.
Vulnerable.
Fatherless.
Snarling.
I lay waste farmlands in my hunger,
but don't know what would slake me.
I lope, tongue aloll, over endless grey marshes,
knowing always their end (will be)
in a charivari of red slaughter.
Author notes
Fenris ready to leap out of the darkest heart of Northern myth. Destroyer of gods and their order.
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