He stays there, at the pinnacle of the stairs
adorned in red and black silk,
lips speckled in a sly simper
and his eyes sparkling with icy bliss.
Blood, his soul knows
and he spreads it in this dreadful world,
singing blasphemous psalms in honor of a monster.
Obscene hymns
for the Formless Mother,
suave chants
for the long-horned omen,
who slumbers in the embrace
of unalloyed gold.
Varré comes in waves of blood
facing horrors in Two Fingers shape.
—- poetry by me, SerpentofLolth
