(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

"I iS XoRaskAvitT aNd my tUrn iT is mIne!"
Drunkenly he flies, and weighed down by the journal he careens and cracks
against a pillar before flopping proudly upon the stage. With a mad grin
Xoraskavitt perches up on the stool, cackling at the bewildered crowd as he
begins his tale.
"gREen anD mad And qUIckeNing wiTh paVEd glImMers ThE OnE naMEd
NAuGht tuMbles froM the sEa, wHIte anD blaCk at tHe SAme tiMe IN tHE
sAme maNneR. TwICe The sUm of Four bE tEN wHIch daNCes into thE chiLl
bOne-nIght...
‘Sally forth we and shall we be fourth to sally,’ I growled, ‘Find the Painted
Egg we must for Morte hides truth to be cracked open, yolk spilling a
thousand thoughts that shall become the nectars of the Lethe.’
Barbed with the sigils of two moons Dak'kon takes the art most peculiar,
smiling a whispered grin greenly. ‘Thus spaketh Monnizerth and his four
truths.’
I slip into the warm waters and slide the razor cross my wrist.
Torment. Pain. Torment. Pain. Torment. Pain.
Whip the shade-streets with four tails and over the fifth star we go. The path
is cobbled with a thousand of the third fever-nights where delirium springs
hot and moist from the skulls of the Lost Ones.
She is green.
Rhadamanthus spoke to me in a bubbling voice, grey and silent as the ashen
fields from which all life springs. His words spin out in a thousand needles,
each piercing the eye of a sinner. It hurts much to do so, but I melt as ice in
the sun. A scream wells from my lips burst in butterflies. So colorful they are.
One becomes a fish. Another a thimble. Three curve into bulbous bubbles
and tell me what to write.
She is green.
Nimbus of the weak we ride, high across the planes and for each we pass we
catch two others hidden in a seashell. ‘Ride the winds!’ I cry, ‘Writhe with the
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