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Conversation with the Anariarch's Scorpion

So comes my faithful pet, from distant sands and most disreputable parts. He carries on his tails and on his feet, the corpses of those who stood before him. With Her, He travels, His faithful companion; her husk be as bloodied and cleaved. They return to me, with tales of horror, love and faith; as much as can be said, during the trying times of licking their wounds. They are mine, yet I am theirs; their stories are much to be sung of. They clean each other, with scissors meant for Hell, and parade around with dance, song and ale; as they stab furiously each other, and my Earth. Rage and Boil do they both, Earths Testament to the Tyrants of Age. They walk smoothly, yet sprint as Angels sent to Maim. Never engage them in combat, you are most certain to lose. They traverse all terrain, land and sea; we are working on their wings. My Garden be as a hostel to them, a waypoint, an Inn. To rest and stay, and share stories most delightful. One would imagine, a violent trashing at the Inns bed; yet, I say no lie, it is as quiet as Doves. In Love those two are, make no mistake. I've yet to see one carry the others carcass, and pray I never do.
A Conversation in the Garden
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Submitted on
October 6, 2012
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