How many needlesticks did he give himself and others?
The Grey Dust
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Protip. Next time when some young punk challenges you to a boxing match, tell them you first have to beat Mike Bison/Balrog from street fighters.
5 days ago
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5 days ago
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Protip. Next time when some young punk challenges you to a boxing match, tell them you first have to beat Mike Bison/Balrog from street fighters.
1
like
6 days ago
If you're happy and you know it clap your hands!.... Seize them and cut off their hands!
3
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7 days ago
A true Caesar salad is eaten piece by leafy piece by stabbing each lettuce leaf with a knife.
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19 days ago
It's Erection day in America! Go to the Poles!
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20 days ago
Don't forget to exercise your super American right to vote for whoever you want to ruin your country next. Who am I kidding... telling Americans to exercise?
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This is a lie.
This is a lie.
Most Recent Posts
We went full sausage fest now.
Not that I mind.
Not that I mind.
Just a WIP.
I will try to finish over the weekend :)
My character is planned to be a male.
Just out of curiosity how much medical info will we need to actually Rp here? Do we depict the day to day of an actual hospital or do we have a glamorous life of tv hospital drama?
May I reserve a Neurology Night-Float?
We need more posts XD
Zhystkrexas has made his plan.
Faith.
The greatest lie of them all. The favored whisper of an empty promise uttered by false lips. Echoed by the blind and deaf, who saw not beyond the veil of deception, and heard not the caution of those before them. It was the wicked venom, the most poisonous draught to quaff, for in moments such fervor and ecstasy would seize the mind. Dulling the senses by the euphoria that was the fool's bargain, a life of suffering meant a divine reward for surely the gods had a plan. For by faith there was a meaning to the torment, a reason to live on and endure the hardships in life praising the gods for all their glory. There was the serpent's lie, that the gods in fact cared. Come winter's end, the heartless immortals remained as cold as the frozen rivers and silent as the snow-hushed hills. The rare game and blighted crop, the famine which spread like fire, death reaped the baleful harvest. Yet still, the spirit of faith clung on to the bitter end. Still life struggles, squirming, groveling before the shrines of their perfect idols offering what little could be spared. Food and sacrifices, prayers of hope and faith, pleas and deals of desperation. But man could not dine on their unanswered prayers.
But he can. Seated upon his high throne Zhystkrexas the Lord of Hunger clamped his jaws into the ruby apple held in his hand. A salivating tongue glided across his glistening teeth, collecting the juices from the crisp flesh. His hunger insatiable, his stomach an endless pit, teeth as sharp as his tongue was smooth, and among the essentials he was the necessary evil of being. Born from the first want; Zhystkrexas was hunger, a desire for something more, the impetus of a drive. Without him, all would stagnate, there would be no will to eat nor drink, no desire to fornicate and breed, no motivation to aspire for anything more than what was given by the graces of the gods. But by his hand, the terrible things that consumed them, pushed into excess until they too could no longer sate their desires, turning want into need. With each bite, the brand of teeth across the apple, He turned the world into the reflection of what Zhystkrexas was: All-Consuming Hunger.
His celestial throne within the second circle befitted his title, stylized by the regalia of his hidden horror. A gilding of gold across the skeletal remains of some great beast, bones gnawed at and brushed with a vainglorious luster as if to conceal the barbaric truth with refined art. There unknown creature's opened skull became a bowl for the apples, serving the ravenous lord his meal such that he may continually eat despite the gathering of gods. As was his nature, which tormented his existence, twisting his mind into not ruling of his dominion, but letting it rule over him. There was once a time where he regulated and moderated the hunger, but now the Zhystkrexas that sat before the rest of them was a perversion of his original self. It was inevitable that the role consumed him, and now perhaps he longed to make the others suffer the same as misery desires company most. It was his influence that tainted the court, and now he sought to plant the seeds to devour the fruits of his patient labour. A new era demanded a new pantheon.
And once planted, he may return to sowing his design in the mortal plane. Favours and allies to claim by the pacts made upon this council floor with his fellow immortals. Then he shall come to the mortals like a messiah to the broken, savior of their lives to bless them with a bounty to feed their hungry mouths. And by the gnashing of teeth, tongues shall confess to the praises of Zhystkrexas, and offer themselves to him like flies to honey by faith. It was his modus operandi: to alleviate the very suffering he created. For the ancient demon-god knew that honey did far better than vinegar to gather flies, but none more so than rotting meat. They would devour it all the same, and poison themselves so willing.
See what faith he can bestow up you?
The greatest lie of them all. The favored whisper of an empty promise uttered by false lips. Echoed by the blind and deaf, who saw not beyond the veil of deception, and heard not the caution of those before them. It was the wicked venom, the most poisonous draught to quaff, for in moments such fervor and ecstasy would seize the mind. Dulling the senses by the euphoria that was the fool's bargain, a life of suffering meant a divine reward for surely the gods had a plan. For by faith there was a meaning to the torment, a reason to live on and endure the hardships in life praising the gods for all their glory. There was the serpent's lie, that the gods in fact cared. Come winter's end, the heartless immortals remained as cold as the frozen rivers and silent as the snow-hushed hills. The rare game and blighted crop, the famine which spread like fire, death reaped the baleful harvest. Yet still, the spirit of faith clung on to the bitter end. Still life struggles, squirming, groveling before the shrines of their perfect idols offering what little could be spared. Food and sacrifices, prayers of hope and faith, pleas and deals of desperation. But man could not dine on their unanswered prayers.
But he can. Seated upon his high throne Zhystkrexas the Lord of Hunger clamped his jaws into the ruby apple held in his hand. A salivating tongue glided across his glistening teeth, collecting the juices from the crisp flesh. His hunger insatiable, his stomach an endless pit, teeth as sharp as his tongue was smooth, and among the essentials he was the necessary evil of being. Born from the first want; Zhystkrexas was hunger, a desire for something more, the impetus of a drive. Without him, all would stagnate, there would be no will to eat nor drink, no desire to fornicate and breed, no motivation to aspire for anything more than what was given by the graces of the gods. But by his hand, the terrible things that consumed them, pushed into excess until they too could no longer sate their desires, turning want into need. With each bite, the brand of teeth across the apple, He turned the world into the reflection of what Zhystkrexas was: All-Consuming Hunger.
His celestial throne within the second circle befitted his title, stylized by the regalia of his hidden horror. A gilding of gold across the skeletal remains of some great beast, bones gnawed at and brushed with a vainglorious luster as if to conceal the barbaric truth with refined art. There unknown creature's opened skull became a bowl for the apples, serving the ravenous lord his meal such that he may continually eat despite the gathering of gods. As was his nature, which tormented his existence, twisting his mind into not ruling of his dominion, but letting it rule over him. There was once a time where he regulated and moderated the hunger, but now the Zhystkrexas that sat before the rest of them was a perversion of his original self. It was inevitable that the role consumed him, and now perhaps he longed to make the others suffer the same as misery desires company most. It was his influence that tainted the court, and now he sought to plant the seeds to devour the fruits of his patient labour. A new era demanded a new pantheon.
And once planted, he may return to sowing his design in the mortal plane. Favours and allies to claim by the pacts made upon this council floor with his fellow immortals. Then he shall come to the mortals like a messiah to the broken, savior of their lives to bless them with a bounty to feed their hungry mouths. And by the gnashing of teeth, tongues shall confess to the praises of Zhystkrexas, and offer themselves to him like flies to honey by faith. It was his modus operandi: to alleviate the very suffering he created. For the ancient demon-god knew that honey did far better than vinegar to gather flies, but none more so than rotting meat. They would devour it all the same, and poison themselves so willing.
See what faith he can bestow up you?
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