city on your knees

the sun was just beginning to rise in the east just as it had for a thousand years and would continue to do for a thousand years more. as the soft rays swept over the land, they began to illuminate a ghostly landscape. corpseghoul swamp was cloaked in a robe of impenetrable fog. the coming heat of the day would only create more of the nebulous mists. the contorted branches of the drowning trees, reached out of the haze like the claws of the dying - desperate to latch on to something (or someone) and drag them along to the netherworld. it was indeed, a graveyard. the ancient rulers of the forest, once proud oaks and sturdy pines, had seen their kingdoms rise, fall and eventually... disappear. twisted, hollowed, skeletons were all that now remained. the silent millennia of time had simply plodded onward, blind to the troubles of a transient world. and new inhabitants had come to occupy the land, ones who could tolerate the excess of water. mysterious willows and dense mangroves had taken root, between the gravesites of past. the age of glory had indeed passed, but life continued on.

abaddon wound his way through the dense undergrowth, carefully picking the path of least resistance. rising to the challenge of heavy plant growth, the socrate's grey traveller's bodice began to pick up speed as he wove back and forth through the undergrowth. his rustic eyes darted as they chose the appropriate placement for his sharp knives. the swamp's terrain was unforgiving, soft crumbling earth studded with razor edged rocks and branches. one misstep and his spindly pistons would shatter in two. it was a rather simple game, but exhilarating none the less. he picked up his pace from a trot, to a canter, finally to a full on gallop. the difficulty of his maneuvers had increased exponentially with each gain in speed, and he began to suffer collateral damage for his game. swerving to the right to avoid a javelin like branch, the don felt a sharp pain on his right. this was, of course, entirely unacceptable. he was livid with himself - primarily for the mistake and secondly for the unnecessarily deep scar that would be added to his collection. one could not expect to gain female attention if they looked more like a carcass than a living thing. he would have to run this path again to do it correctly... or suffer the consequences. abaddon exhaled sharply as he broke upon an open clearing; he had stumbled into ankle dep water and the impact of the admiral's pads sent up great plumes of spray about him. enough.

abaddon's mud lathered sides heaved as the scarlet paint poured from the wound. the aged marshal swung his crown back to take inventory on the damage; it was a substantial gash... but only a cut. it would heal within the week and seemed unlikely to hinder his movement. his nares quivered as he examined the scene around him, certain his downfall had attracted the hellions of alacritis.