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A ghost, born of darkness, shrouding where the starlight once beat her brow.

Persistent gales mystify her like jolts of wondrous pain, not unlike ancient wounds.

A sight never before held through crystalline eyes: embers of noumenal source soar on whirlwinds of thought

to the hungry sound of a thunderous reckoning.

This pulsation, felt organ deep, produces a grand anxiety. ..Valatriska.

She tightens her grip, already death-like, around a wisp of hair.

The swathes of ceremonial garb, near tatters, desperately cling to her body like children in the season of dearth… Valatriska

The machines of death grind their gears.

Oiled in blood. Howling sounds of engines and metal on bone.

She recalls the famine and lips pursed for her Mother’s milk - Left in want.

Breasts producing nothing but a silken emptiness tinged with the beauty of malevolent creation.

She raises the tuft to inhale the scent.

Archon...tearful, aching...

Pleased… Valatriska