Screaming Kalmovrons plummeted to the blanched ground of the moon-steeped planet Lyramudis. Slippery beaks tore bits of decayed flesh from the rotting carcass of a cancerous Thath. As they pulled at the shreds of skin, their scaly, clawed wings stirred up puffs of fine dust that vanished like many souls who had once inhabited this. - - - the forbidden of all the universe.
Through the settling dust and the protruding ribs, one could look over the hills go Lyramudis, the beautiful hills once inviting and cool, with green foliage waving brilliant blooms in the gentle winds. Now all was barren, Hills lay like the body of a dead woman:
mounds pulling and writhing, the ravaged breasts now dry erased with time and the broken hands of torture. On cliffs (the ragged sides of once-grateful mountains) clung the ruin of the singing Rulfo tree,
not even sighing with the dead air that surrounded it, for there was life no more in the good and beautiful of Lyramudis.
What had angered the demon gods to seek such revenge on this moon-steeped planet? What crime so great that a land's heart should be torn asunder and laid gasping for life's blood? We cannot ask the Kalmovrons, whose tiny minds can think only of the gangrenous food offered them. Nor can we ask the now dead Thath.
Should we ask the lonely hills of their plight, of their death, of their sin? Their only answer would be silence, the silence of those in Doom's clutches.
Scream, o happy Kalmovrons: Gorge your greedy bellies, and be happy while you may, for the curse on this blighted planet is not lightly allayed. Not yet are the demon gods sated.
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