Let there be Chaos

[Akelah]

Chaos.

Pure unadulterated pandemonium.
It was a feeling in the air, an ambiance within the moon bathed nightfall. A personified epidemic that stalked the land in its’ incarnated form of tattered shadows that writhed in glory when awash with screams and blood and clawed hungrily at the little sparks of light it didn’t manage to engulf. Doomed would be the correct presumption. The truthful deduction one could make on earth and its’ inhabitants. It would spread, and it would overcome; that was a fact none could change. The weak would be taken; the moderately firm, seduced; and the strong, torn down piece by
piece.

Everything was affected by the reign of Chaos. Everything that fell under shadow of its gilded podium withered and festered and those that did not withered for Withering’s sake. Blood was the water the people cleansed in and corruption a cloak most everyone dawned. But as it is always, there was a place among the hideous places that was by far the most poisoned. If the others had sipped from the cup of anarchy then Lifora gulped the falsely sweet ooze down in the slurping gulp portrayed of a man tormented by unending thirst.

One could find Lifora, though not even the most sickened mind would think of it, by trekking through the most inhospitable terrain. Over the hulking, jagged mountains that shot up from the ground like fangs from a snaggle-toothed maw; across the ravine whose bleeding depths hid the Demons’ claw that ripped through the barrier of Hell to earth; through miles of shriveled woodland that could be called dead-land where the once docile animals tracked and hunted for violence’ sake against strangers, bed-mates and blood kin alike. There one would find, Beauty. A splendor unlike any other that glistened and shine before one’s eyes.

The fields would be plentiful, the roads peaceful, and into the towns a hush of serenity. No screams would be heard through the air. No blood splattered in macabre patterns across dirt and stone. Just quietness that permeated the very land. One would stroll the streets with little to fear, unless a cobblestone decided to jump out of place to trip and stub toes. All would be still. Silent. One would find themselves drawn into the heart of the city, following the houses as they got larger, more extravagant. There would be a house in name, a palace in physical appearance and substance. The crystal handle would turn ever so easily for the one who wished to open it and eyes would find unspeakable magnificence that no art, word, or memory could ever do justice.

And there would be Disarray, the seedling of Chaos, curled in a corner of the most extravagant mansions in all of the world, with the innocent glow and unknowing of a child yet the blackened shriveled veins of the pandemic itself.


Please don't be harsh but criticism is appreciated. This is my first time writing in this style as I usually am more inclined to write like that of a traditional story with plot and dialogue. Here's to trying new things!