knot box

In the clutches of a winged, flying creature, a creature that was never created, but born of some darkness and/or urgency, black ink dripped to the page below it, like candle wax, pressed with the seal of character or intent. The thing itself could not read the words that assembled themselves from the chaos, but they were there, nonetheless.

Explosions and fireblasts and lightning strikes and toxic acid rain clouds and sharp hail flew all around this beast, if we would be so kind enough to label it a beast, as it was surely more than a thing, but less than alive, and it evaporated into whatever it may consider to have been its escape, possibly with more of its kind.

In its wake, the tumultuous layers of dangerous upheaval, ripped from the existence of reality, retreated to whence they came, as well. The fires slickened to an ember, the acid foamed and erupted, the rain dried up, the hail was no more. The oceans calmed, the land settled restfully, nestled into its corners for a good long time, while the wind lazily played a tune and ran through the fields for fun.