There will come a time when the CLEAVEN-FOLK leave the hills and swamps. They’ll come after you and your fancy pants sentimentality and other grongozoid-husk-varmint-juice.
It will be RELENTLESS …
And after?
The dusk-wench will cry “FURY FOR THE DEAD SCROLLS!”
(but echoes)
Only the echo of stale promise in the light of NEW SAND REALMS.
“STAG RULE is DROWNING!”, cried Freedus, the nut-gromel and toog-stand.
He’d been clawing at reality, trying to find a way back to the Cave’s of Sym, where his mother had killed his brother’s uncle’s wife’s dog CHERRY TOP …
Dennis, the COOB, stood by the burly hornet women.
Our sadness fumed. We had not fire to warm our gruel nor cow to milk for our finer sauces. When the French King visited? – we simply had canned tuna and old ranch dressing. His cloak was thick and torn, his crown made of iron and thorns. He walked with a limp due to some wound he got during the 32nd War of Robotics and Porn. He was hated among the hill people, but loved among the harbor rats of Marseilles. Once, in Bombay, he made love to 68 women and then ran off when he found out half were pregnant … such are the tales of King Uuggen.
Still … there were night terrors and sweats and delirium tremens – as the alcohol leaves the body and the mind quakes at the thought of NEW DAY and MORNING TIME. All made smooth for the Cleaven-folk.
Cleaven-folk are powerful beasts, covered in possum oils and fish guts. They range about the streets looking for young flesh and blood ponies. Last time they ruled the lands, the soil was soaked with blood and the turnip fish lay dead upon the sands.
All for what?
Mexican pie?
Could be Troggen-Skleek – this is harvested from the Baltic where the sea demons pray.
2,000 years ago, before the Danish overlords were driven from their ancestral muck, the SKOOB-FIENDS bred lions and hawks and some squirrels. They would raise squirrel meat, and eat it.
The Cleaven-folk take BIG RISKS … they ride the wave of disarray and panic as the ASS CLOWNS of Wall Street go sideways and the FED turns NORTH. They don’t wait for TIME BANSHEES to grant special rights – nay … they are the STAR CHASERS and eat brandy soup with monsters.
When the DRE’LL told Queen Moorsol to surrender her navies following the ninth lesbian war of total regret? Did she not stand up as Cleaven-folk and declare the near space her monkey realm. Sure, she did … Can we recall how many of these fine waifs were tossed from the bus?
STRUGGS dealt the final card to Oberly and his crooked harem. He made money from selling jewel-wine and hardening window passes in Quadrant-21BRAVO. His mud whore, Sheila, dug the star-bishop and ate from the table of sand and glass. Her stare could cut you, bleed you, consume.
I know the mark of the mountain bear. I’ve seen his glare, and the growling embittered voice of that hairy thing haunts my nights. I ran to the forest and lived like a denizen of stuzzle-graves. I ate the last pieces of that dead thing, that was buried under the church nearby.
SHALL WE TALK OF CLEAVEN-FOLK MAGIC?!
- Grape saw gloom.
- Tester binge.
- Rat march.
- Kennedy sideways after darkness.
- Moon rile.
- Ghost coffee.
- Kelp trials.
- Snake bearer.
- Summon the gods.
- Demon power rod.
- Jizz parley.
Do you want to travel further down the back roads of Styg Town and sojourn among the flying fish?
You just have to break free …
