Made of Misery

Shuffling along with the rest of the herd, noticing the nuances of the livestock, slowly feeling the numbing pulse, shake through my body, twisting my soul to match the cull. It almost slips past my senses, the slow. draining of my.....self, but I do catch it and release my horde from my abyss. Scorching the landscape back to the ash encrusted ravines and jagged, crumbling cliffs that fit my troops. Misery is leading my minions on the siege of this blissful mosaic, scattering the enemy forces, like pigeons on the sidewalk as a child runs through their flock. The skies are splattered with blood, as the orangeness of desolation sets in. Then as the scene reaches epic beauty, a casym splits my battlefield, like a black bolt of lightening running across the ground, festering with unrefuted dispair, causing a shockwave of immobility to pass through both ranks, turning the battleground into a garden of terracotta soldiers. Some shatter, like a ceramic vase, as the dispair settles back into the earth, leaving my castle, under reconstruction, untouched. For the brick of depression I've used to rebuild my walls are impenetrable to the likes of this.