top of page


There within the shade, Mazana was left alone with her introspection. Comm'Orra was refusing to touch the girl, bestowing her a seat at that lavished table within opulent halls. The two inelegantly dining as the Homunculus queried what his game was. The Djinn gifted with unfettered admittance, parading across the alien realm, as the twinkling buzzing insects did susurrate into her ears. Here, within this world of ever-shifting smog and shimmering golden lights, time held no jurisdiction. Outside this unearthly domain, weeks had transpired, and yet not a single soul ventured to rescue her. The olive-toned beauty watching as the lord of deception, battled his brethren, Myrriah, and Hunter present at clockwork. The group, unaware of her snooping, as inquisitive eyes, witnessed her brother's unwillingness to unveil her plight.

 An unsettling truth unfurled, a dismal epiphany that this psychologically damaged rose was forced to entertain. The heart drumming, as from the pools of umbra Comm'orra sprouted, embracing his granddaughter as if to comfort her. Tears were rolling down those cheeks as the once stoic posture had become eradicated, giving way to an emotionally perturbed display. This artificial lifeform was not wanted; her brother Hunter spurned her, not once did Myrriah or Rakash even question that prolonged absenteeism. Familial bonds, the one thing keeping this heartsick soul afloat, usurped and exhibited how spoiled the core had become. Denial seemed appropriate, as the Elder continuously whittled down self-deception. He was forcing a cocktail of candied truths and vicious lies down that gullet, as Mazana found it increasingly arduous to parry his tenacity.

The two strolling through the garden of black roses, their bleeding fractured stems, the perfect reflection of her current psyche. There at the epicenter stood a swirling body of water, it's crimson hue akin to blood, yet its texture seemed far too syrupy. The golden clad form gesticulating for Mazana to gaze into the fathomless depth, as a steady rivulet of erudition barraged her consciousness. The eyes were widening as goosebumps darted across her skin. Enlightenment was a terrifying prospect, often she thought the unknown proved foreboding, yet the truth seemed vastly more disturbing. Myrriah, her gentle mother, was anything but the intrepid saint she vaunted about so liberally. The pretense lifted, the curtain separated, as a myriad of events thought tucked from observant eyes were made known.

Her resilience admirable, but Mazana couldn't hope to adhere to those ill-poised morals for much longer. Her family was a fabrication, her creation a sordid tale, the vessel an aberration, blurring the lines between genders. The Djinn had no place, a sojourner without a nest, this undeniable conclusion, while depressing, ushered in some placidity. There, within the constant stream of death, the torrent of lamentations of Myrriah's design, solace had for the first time been achieved. The penetrating bellows of her victims, their incessant wailings for retribution, lowering her guard as the enforcer took the plunge. The mind, body, and soul, riding that chaotic spiral, pushing through the eroding bane that is suffering. Clarity, actual realization merited, as even their rapacious appetite for vengeance did little to chip away her centered will. 

Comm'orra was chortling as the woman tiptoed toward the edge, leaning forward, and thrusting herself into the blackened core. The Elder one of revolution impressed, so much so, that unbeknownst toward Mazana, he bequeathed her his blessing, shielding her from the nerve-racking terrors slinking beyond sagacity. The lord of chaos expected her to break, judging her mental fortitude to be lacking. Mazana's entire life is that of misery which had brought with it certain callouses. These intangible barriers proving enough to withstands the perpetual onslaughts, as each attempt to rip her mind asunder, only strengthened Mazana's resolve. Those feet reaching the floor, cast adrift within a vortex of delirium. Standing at the core, the very heart of her mother's failures, the truth utterly ingested. 

The syndicate, a relic, the world her mother yearned to architect, utilized countless generations' carcasses as building blocks. The foundation was decaying, as the hand of Comm'Orra reached into the gaped orifice housing his granddaughter. The finger was sprawling out as Mazana hugged the digit, accepting her new place as his earthly vassal. His wicked chi coursing through her body, the failures of her creation purged, as the inferior vessel was reformed to serve his interest. Boney tendrils whipping about, as eyes as black as night radiated a supernatural chill. The inquisitor no longer a failed homunculus; no, she had become something far more unadulterated. The djinns of this cycle an abject failure, one that Comm'orra endeavored to remedy. 

Mazana stood as the culmination of lessons learned from his missteps with Myrriah. The lord of revolutions delighted with his new spawn, as the discarded rose floated on a cloud of fog and icy flakes. The regurgitated abomination vowed retaliation, as Comm'orra planned to use the infrastructure Myrriah devised to reform the world into his image. The shadow and feelers would soon crush those that had spurned her. This ascension would cast twilight across this unworthy bosom of sand. The realm of mortality, hers to mold as Mazana saw fit, to undo the damage of her kin. Those succulent lips were curving into a broad smirk, as eyes emitted a devilish glow.  

With knowledge came responsibility; sometimes, the iniquity of the unknown can be comforting. This dream, this multiverse, was an unending sea of aversions. Comm'Orra took his newfangled creation on a journey, sanctioning this frigid rose to tarry within innumerable potentialities. The Djinn witnessing events thought robbed from sight, observing as each choice brought a future demise. From the embers, another was born, setting off a vast chain of events. Like a phantom, she patrolled, annotating all beheld within that labyrinth of a mind. The frosty matron, powerless to interact, was forced to endure as limitless tragedies transpired.

The lord of revolution making the truth known, that all sentient life seeks to prey on those thought lesser. That the universes we inhabit, no matter their design, were fundamentally antagonistic. The pursuit for any other meaning, vapid, devoid of any substantial merit. The reasoning behind existence exhibited freely, evolving, subjugating, and dominating one's environment. The soul no longer burdened, the mind untethered, as hysterically she laughed amidst such bittersweet revelations. All life, no matter its station, are by design slaves. Their bonds are not made of iron, their shackles just beyond realization, held together by the one thing no one can refute, their very genes.

The formerly delinquent soul finding respite, standing amongst the sea of revenants, the very innocents spurned their chance at life by the subconscious wills of others. Their ever-shifting forms were reaching out, placing disfigured hands onto her body, as their misshaped faces came into view. What wonderous discord, such a seemingly chaotic song of derangement, the lullaby not of a dream, but a nightmare. Mazana understood what she must do; these deprived voices must be heard, their maddening tune will escape this vacuum and resonate across reality. The very foundations of her home must be torn asunder; the cancerous growths uprooted to salvage the body.  The land was stricken with Delirium, haughtily running circles, as if the treading of familiar ground could elicit change?  For a sounder world to exist, the old ways must be eradicated without clemency.  

Many innocent will perish, but, in the end, their demise would benefit the whole.  The icy woman understood one thing to be accurate; each second, thousands of realities waned, while thousands were birthed from nothing. Mortals often say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. If so, the land should thank her for bequeathing them with such resilience. The age of man is no more, as the Elves before, and the spirits predating them. A fashionable world is dawning, a new day, the hour of the beastkin, of which Mazana will be the architect. Who else dared to carry out such a crusade? For you see, epochs are just like wheat; there are plenty of seeds, so why not waste a few while one can afford it?

pixlr-bg-result - 2021-07-10T182129_edited_edited.png


Most dreaded the dark, shying away from the incertitude of what prowled within its swarthy bosom—the umbra brought with it a sense of repose as the spiraling torrent of lamentations resonated around her.  Mazana had peered into the void, saw their reality for what it certainly is given her finite observational tools. Ironic, the nettlesome worm burrowing into her cognizance, no longer retaining any jurisdiction over that formerly bereaved soul. The dirge of the fallen, their kerfuffle washing over the evolved entity. As those succulent lips curled into an insidious smirk, the golden adorned hands reaching out, as digits delved into the intangible vortex of ruination. One more soul to the call, but rather than be ravenously gorged by the chaos, the frigid rose transcended it. Comm'Orra, Lord of Revolution, Elder one of Choas was her grandfather, and the two managed to get adequately acquainted throughout her stay in his domain.

The world had repudiated the former enforcer. Her familial bonds exhibited for the misconception they were, as brother and mother spurned the inquisitor. The residents of that land were grieving; the realm required healing, yet the originator of this blight was bequeathed unfettered freedom to traipse uncontestedly.  The transgression of the past buried under the sands of times, pompously the Mistress of shadows fancied herself above condemnation. What hubris, for what is done in the dark, is destined to be illuminated by the light. For all Myrriahs boastings, for those multitudes of promulgations, she haughtily conceived herself above the pinnacle of Conspiracy, known as Comm'Orra. Mazana understood their relationship; the Elder didn't love her, but the swarm of locust and smog was at least honest.

Those blinded eyes could now perceive, perforating through the veil that made her vision myopic. The countless epochs, worlds beyond measure, yet despite their quantity and diversity, the stories were all the same. Vicariously Mazana lived through those eras, honed by her grandfather, as time itself proved malleable within his world. The cycle, the sequence never changed. Even now, the world charted itself toward devastation, consuming its resources, oppressing their own, as the jungle prepared to fall into place. The stage was set, the actors waiting for their entrance, blissfully oblivious that the ending had been written long before their conception, not by some divine guidance, but by their very genes, the nature of this antagonistic cosmos poised to strive as their undoing.

The mortals had presumed much, failing to compartmentalize the precarious truth, that Comm'Orra was a natural force. The horde that claimed so many intended to consolidate them, not exterminate, its arrival, merely a means for propulsion. Revolution, that maelstrom offtimes derived by lesser wills as malicious, was incapable of being bound by such ephemeral notions. Morality was simply a mechanism adopted by others to intellectualize and classify causality. The truth, scarcely so black and white, for from chaos life emerged, tyrants fall and rise, and ideologies both beneficial and corroding are usurped.  Myrriah didn't design a single thing; she merely used their natural tendencies against them, veneering the repugnancy of her actions through a juvenile mantra.  "The good of the realm," in essence, lacked any foundations.

The serpent was peddling her lies, their candy coating palatable, beguiling those of lesser wills, to include the former Mazana. The Djinn was under no deception, the process of recognition arduous, yet that which is advantageous is rarely afforded so effortlessly. Erudition now harvested, her training within the sea of ever-shifting worlds completed, as the frosty rose and Lord of Revolution dictated the terms of their relationship.  The entities were weaving forth quite the web, having then studiously researched their desired prey, architecting a grand design. Myrriah's powers were waning, and the concordant signed long ago between Elder siblings assured Comm'orra couldn't interfere too leisurely. But like any contract, there was some wiggle room for interpretation. Matsumota, Valerna, even the melancholy jester named Hunter did most of the essential work for her.

Her siblings' fate proved inconsequential; whether they expired or persisted, it remained irrelevant toward the stage. The sanctuary of subterfuge desiccated. Myrriah, the lady of coin, restricted to a singular point, an irrevocable and dreadfully lull climax. The final thread was robbed from snooping eyes, shielded by a convergence point. Poetically ironic, to salvage her future, the lioness of the desert must return to where it all originated. The metropolis frozen in time, secured within a pocket realm. It's former population's crystalized; their remains strewed across the necropolis. 

Their bodies locked into their final moments, the horrific event so immediate that not a single statue endeavored to flee or manifest horror. Their forms ensnared within the seclusion, assembling at their tables to eat; others were perusing wares. Simultaneously, some of the former Mer held the hands of their children—a single snapshot of time, exuding the adverse effect that is existential trepidation. Within the former palace, those riches eroded by the inundating clutches of atrophy, an orb floated. The bridge was connecting, as the Dragon within preserved by torpidity's spell. The realm of the immaterial conjoining with the "real." From the floating spherical mass, a golden shimmer flickered, perforating the otherwise darkened room. The laws of nature deformed as grains of sand, dust, and debris floated throughout this ancient bastion of civilization.

The cradle of a time in memorial, the now inert heart of a bygone era. This relic of an often romanticized period, housing the last Dragon and a well of energy. An inky tail swung about from the oscillating ball, repelling back the rot instilled by times passage. Those former trinkets of opulence imagined squandered, undergoing restoration, as the curtain shielding this ruin waned. Within the heart of the dunes, the city emerged instantaneously into view. Those ill-informed would see the haze of the desert heat, the result of their life-giving binary suns, and possibly presume this to be a mirage. The rivulets of darkness and fireflies clashing every which way as the Dragon roused from its stupor.

Those reptilian eyes were peering at the epicenter as violent gales coursed throughout its abode. The ball was becoming smaller before vanishing with an explosion, hurling the furniture and other such items across the room.  A third sun was seemingly appearing out of nowhere, the radiant light forcing the titan to avert its gaze. Agitation vexing it's intelligent mind, only to see Mazana standing where the incursion appeared. Her lither form tightly covered by leather, as those thigh high boots approach resounded against the heartless stone walls. The beast was sniffing the air, that snout flaring, sensing a familiar essence signature. That of Myrriah yet tarnished by something vastly more incomprehensible.

"You, you are familiar yet not the same. Curious, you eradicated my spell, shattered the illusion, and tethered this graveyard to the sands. The animal inside wishes to consume you, but the mind within this vessel finds itself enamored. Sound off, little girl, before rationalism, gives way to my primal nature. Who are you? How did you arrive, and what are your intentions with this cemetery?"

The pool behind him emitting a silvery light, as the vast magic within was Mazana's goal. The two entities were peering into one another's eyes as Mazana desisted her momentum. Those hands resting on broad hips, the fingers were pressing into the flesh as the bone flared to the right as her weight shifted. Stoicism greeting the beast, inspiring a chuckle at her tenacity and bravado. 


"Comm'Orra sent me; I am the daughter of Myrriahs, your warden. I am known as Mazana, the Frigid flower."

Her retort was doing little to appease the titan, forcing him to shift about and unfurl those wings. That scaled monstrosity let out a ferocious, booming roar, resonating across the entirety of the region.

"You presume much, to think me a prisoner? Such defiance, your eyes are as cold as death itself. Humor me while I deliberate what to do next. How am I bound?"

Mazana gesturing around the room as the APV shot free from her back and orbited her stationary form. Those golden coated hands raising, places the pointer finger to luscious lips, as if to hush and still the beast.

pixlr-bg-result - 2020-10-08T093603_edited.png
bottom of page