CentaSpike

.theres a corrupt path. leading down to the swamp.living dead Centaspike follows the stench, his footsteps beating rhythmic dark pulses, sinking down low at the edges, theres blood in the mud and he kneels .digs his mangled hands inside and slides into the abyss, descending with smile rotted and wild eyes.



in the depths the corpses are alive, evil music thrashing from their arteriesits here he festers, waiting.filthy water seeps into his ears and lungs.his ideas are restless, restless to spread, dredge, infect, unbind, unleashed on Obscene, Fearing Fear.