No strings to divine, no plans designed. beauty must sercome to the fate we all share. For the almighty gardener, with holy words, whilome did create, spheres of earth and most-high a space. Now outside this paradise sprang a prideful pink rose. arisen in full torn’s. Elevating to the second height. Unlikely to remain a morning star: but rise high as god. Now here goes the Neplifim race. In dark shadows they pray. in thin body’s they search. Where did we come from? Who is god? Mortal men the first has been answered, as for the second, well that question should say, tell me Gods real name?

Rise, rise, he rose off the cliffs of a black paradise: The Great Red Dragon is to come to speak his name…

His eyes are gold. His hands are strong. His scales are blood red. His hell-freren breath burns black, casting out heat and smoke from the depths of his ancient heart. His wings are vast: fierce since the day of his birth. He is ancient to all everlasting spirits. His throne lays within a high mountain crowned in pure gold. He hunts above a world cast in endless Night: absolutely no shine other than the opening of his gaping teeth touch the black soil scorching the land known as hell.

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