By John Ogden
In the castle of the abyss, something stirs, wakens. Men greet it with the hack-slash of shining swords, pour forth their passions, their fury, their anger at children lost, families slaughtered– but still it does not die. It cannot die. It is eternal, and though the men know this, still they throw themselves at it, die smiling as they fall one by one, souls torn from bodies granted rest eternal. For the beast, this is merely duty, a pattern in men that must be fulfilled whenever the passions of the soul run too high and blood must be spilled, like steam released from a tired valve.
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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
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