Hoshor Plains seven trumpets

set on the 30th

she is returned what felt like not more than a day when the songs of devils rose to stain the wind with their cursed wail. they spat on yellowstone's claim, commanded their own as if breath would forge it so.

the viper is turned with a beat, paws propelling toward the edge of her domain to stand as a sentinel in manifested rejection to the orge's claim. who did she think she challenged?!

more voices joined in the wind, unfamiliar but met with a seething hiss from the thundering stormcloud. had the wretch amassed enough bodies to test them? were they to blemish the soil with blood thickened in stubbornness?

fuck the lake, she thought as she paced the perimeter, the days of war teasing her with a kiss to the ear. she had grown through needless bloodshed, had learned to taste it on the wind before it ever sullied the ground they walked upon.

and the wind tasted bitter.