Here and now is graced with the thunderous entry. Realize a cosmic kerfuffle and feathery flaunt and ferocity. The nigh-black flesh-tearing cyclonic mass aches to blast and it does! 'Boom!' goes the dame o' might! Krakatoa lends a nigh-almighty voice for this ear-splitting explosive spectacle! The acrid air crackles, daring to break from this barbaric growling choir song of the illest to last more than ten seconds! Painted thoroughly into this pitiful present—unworthy of the Unkind this pathetic place, she comes to be, if it is even a she.

Thick feathers of raven and soot embracing neck to elbows to shins. Ribbed layers of straw, leather and dried bone for gauntlets concealing competent agents that have committed countless cruelties. Worn black boots that may have been long pillaged to from some dismal grave in a time before wireless contact through copper and brass instruments are made veiling the pair are used to trek long winding and even uncharted roads of earth, water, air, flesh, bones, and the vast darkness.

Beneath a pointy black hat, a large long-beaked mask of aged ivory lovingly tainted by dried blood—spots and smears—is a proper fit. It is cuddling well the malignant mug of a roaming disaster so beyond warped in mortal comprehension, the cosmos itself actually provides the ominous one a fancy facade to censor the foul one. A pair of slim oval pits where the eyes would be are lifeless. Truly, there is no need for actual gaze when reality can be perceived in more ways than several. It is as everything that she is to be made sense of even if just the slightest a worthless physical shell. Throw all with petty perception a little bone, for their silly sake.

Hum merrily a guttural serenade of a steel-throated crocodile if one is the size of a mountain. Nations of good folks would tremble at the faintest whisper of this enduring sigh of unholy terror. Damn all that is good and just for being so incompetent of what blockade they could have forged to stop her re-entry. The Mistake has been fashioned a form in creation once more, formerly swimming through the gnawing gurgling gargantuan gallery of the verily-vicious Void where petty life is nil a will at even the most fleeting of feathery feel. Delight the return to tantalizing tangibility. Live life again, Monster of the Old Domains. One of many, to the chagrin of this new metacosmic metropolis.

Then comes curiosity. Sweet, sweet curiosity. It sings to her sinister senses. The itch to tell her that solitude is broken so soon. Company is quite near, whether she will then give a smile or a sneer. Slowly turn that beaked ivory she does. Raise a hand to start a gesture. Tickle the air with a claw-like fingered glove now bearing much less of that shadowy showmanship from more than ten seconds prior. Little limbs strum that the air itself play the melody of this malice of a mistress in a mask. For the mortal ears, the callous creak simply chirps, “H e l l o ~.” 🖤