False Scripture

There are a thousand ways to skin a cat, and a lot of skinned cats outside my apartment. They keep screaming and I can't get them to stop.

Using Kingfisher's alley gets you places quicker. This is well known but not well understood, and people get quiet when it's brought up. That's not what bothers me though. What bothers me is the song, which makes me feel oddly safe. I have to wonder... Safe from what? (2/2)

There is a strange alleyway in this city, in front of it sits a beggar who claims his name is Kingfisher. No one uses this alley without first giving Kingfisher a coin (it doesn't matter the value) and recieving his song – which he whistles for you as you walk the path. (1/2)

Stars, like maggots in the cold flesh of heaven, gorge on the firmament before pupation. This metamorphosis leaves them darkened and indistinguishable from the rest of the night sky, great devourers of light sprouting event horizon wings in their final stages of life.

Sins accumulate in a person's bones, calcifying and hardening with age. Skeletons become unbreakable prisons for souls, trapping the human spirit even long after death. Ghosts often find themselves entombed in their own bodies.

The moon is lonely. Leaving the impression of a boot on her own surface she dusts off an old memory, fondles it nostalgically, reminiscing about the times people would visit her.

As you walk the streets, you see a mass of fused together faces and skulls, the weight of which is being mustered by ten men and women. As you watch them, you feel a pang of longing for what they have. (2/2)

For those who struggle with finding true love, modern medicine provides the practical solution of sewing together the neurons between two or more people's brains, unifying multiple minds into a single collective. (1/2)

"Oh Trent? No, that kid don't have a bad bone in his body." The necromancer frowned. That wouldn't do. "And him?" "Oh, Marty? A right lil shit head he is. Nothin' but trouble." "Lot of bad bones?" The urchin nodded. Perfect. The necromancer always needed bad bones.

As you sit at his table, the dealer gives you a smile, the only feature visible beneath his wide brimmed hat. His hand hovers over a deck of cards, as a voice emanates from beneath his heavy coat. "Would you like me to deal you in?"

We stepped through the tree line, down the trail and deeper into the woods. It was dark, and we didn't get far before heading back. Like the old hermit had said. The woods are full. (2/2)

The hermit had said, "Woods are full." We asked if he would clerify, but he just shrugged his shoulders and kept walking. "Woods are full," he repeated. (1/2)

The Pontificate wishes to apologize for the absence of scriptures during the holiday season and asks you be patient while we aquire new scribes. No need to acknowledge. (2/2)

𝑀𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑒: As the yuletide season recedes, we wake. Entering the archives, it has come to our attention our scribes have met their end at winter's icy hands. The Pontificate have been reminded of the human tendency to perish. (1/2)

A wind swept smile shatters under the weight of nothing, porcelain teeth splintering in the mouth of a condemned giant. Imperfections in the face of the Nephilim spiderweb like shattered glass, impacted by a slung stone. It burns white hot with faith.

Watching the tide come in tonight. The wind has died but the waves build and crawl farther up the shore. As the clouds part and allow for the moon's glow, the light reflects off of a throng of eyes, their gaze fixed squarely on me. The waves grow closer.