A foul beast that must be spawned of my own mentality? Why of course.
In the mountains of my mind, there lives a sickening creature. A wicked entity, not quite a person, but not quite animal. Not quite anything really. Clad in skin-tight leather, muscles and tumors pulsating beneath, difficult to tell which is which. A black-feathered raven head sitting precariously upon it's shoulders with glowing blue eyes, as deep in hue as a madman's rage. He comes like a knife in the dark towards a single heartbeat, feasting upon the energy of what once was, and the pleasure of the kill.
Many have tried to slay him, becoming memories that even history has forgotten.
Things aren't right when the crow-man walks. The ground forgets that it was ever there, leaving people to step into pits of never-there. Ice turns to flame, weapons to rust, food to serpents.
He is a wandering anomaly. Often he keeps prisoners, destined to be tortured by his abominable existence. He points a finger at a man, and he is reduced to ash, or he sprouts fur and vomits, or he turns into livestock.
...And the crow-man derives pleasure from it. Within whatever fetid hole he calls home, the crow-man hosts orgies of tortured souls and townsfolk, who seem to change at his every whim. There is no shame. No fear. Simply the ravenous lust as men turn to women, women into animals, animals into plants, and plants into dust. Their shapes morph in an entrancing ebb and flow. All at the whim of the crow-man.
He is the lord of magic, Anam'Nevar. Mana Raven
In the mountains of my mind, there lives a sickening creature. A wicked entity, not quite a person, but not quite animal. Not quite anything really. Clad in skin-tight leather, muscles and tumors pulsating beneath, difficult to tell which is which. A black-feathered raven head sitting precariously upon it's shoulders with glowing blue eyes, as deep in hue as a madman's rage. He comes like a knife in the dark towards a single heartbeat, feasting upon the energy of what once was, and the pleasure of the kill.
Many have tried to slay him, becoming memories that even history has forgotten.
Things aren't right when the crow-man walks. The ground forgets that it was ever there, leaving people to step into pits of never-there. Ice turns to flame, weapons to rust, food to serpents.
He is a wandering anomaly. Often he keeps prisoners, destined to be tortured by his abominable existence. He points a finger at a man, and he is reduced to ash, or he sprouts fur and vomits, or he turns into livestock.
...And the crow-man derives pleasure from it. Within whatever fetid hole he calls home, the crow-man hosts orgies of tortured souls and townsfolk, who seem to change at his every whim. There is no shame. No fear. Simply the ravenous lust as men turn to women, women into animals, animals into plants, and plants into dust. Their shapes morph in an entrancing ebb and flow. All at the whim of the crow-man.
He is the lord of magic, Anam'Nevar. Mana Raven
