Your heart beats the blood of my mercy. You crawl about, darting from hole to hole, the sizzle of your fear a call to supper. You are all such pathetic and low things. If you knew me you would fear me. I am above your concerns, a desperate chase from shade to shade. You love me. You love me for my shade. You are pitiful. You are not ignorant of me. You cannot conceive of me. My shade is death, and my spears the censer and chapel of Eater. Even to Eater I leave nothing. Only in his shade am I...but not yet. Not yet.
I am alone. I am removed. The price of strength can be solitude, I believe, but not like this. Not like this.
If I spread my shade and decide you are over, how can you resist? Your company are the scattered soon-dead, the fearful, the still. You cannot touch me if I do not bid it. You cannot see me unless I choose to season you with terror. You are helpless. You are alone. So you are mine. Praise my shade.
The apes think they know me. Let them. Let the apes Become. I am bored.
Your execution is stayed for another day. I can tear you apart so effortlessly. Why should I chatter? Why should I Sing? Let others - lessers - cry war on wing. Let others strike fear. My reach is the thunder. You are all my red garden. There is nothing here for you. There is nothing for any of us. This is where we will die. Not yet. Not like this. Not before you.