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The Dark Whispers of Malignant's Bargain
"The devil comes to us in the guise of our deepest desires."
Anne Rice
🔮 🪄
A #WRITCO Horror
(Based on Wes Craven's Wishmaster)
🍽️ 💄 🧬
THE
7TH
SEAL
🌈 📖
Magog the Unholy, my master's servant, my vessel in this foul quest. His will, my command. His whispers, my marching orders. The abyss yawns below me, a gaping maw of shadow and despair, and within it, Malignant stirs. The demon's hunger for freedom is a palpable force, a constant pressure against the fabric of this world. And I, a mere mortal in the grand pattern of darkness, am the one to grant it.
Seven gems, seven souls. That's what it will take to break the seal. The druids, those insipid worshippers of the natural world, hold the keys to my lord's cage. They're scattered across the land, clutching their precious stones like newborns to their mothers' breasts. I'll pry those gems from their cold, dead hands, if I must. But first, I shall grant them what their pathetic hearts desire. A taste of power, a fleeting glimpse of their deepest cravings. How delightful it is to watch them squirm and beg, so eager to trade their eternal souls for a morsel of the divine.
Ah, the sweet sound of their prayers echoes through the night as I approach the first, a morsel named Francine. Her thoughts are a cacophony of lust, a symphony of carnality that makes even the most depraved demons blush. I can almost taste her need for release. "Your wish," I whisper in her ear, "anything you desire." She looks at me with those wide, hungry eyes, and I can feel her body quiver with anticipation.
"The greatest feeling," she gasps, "I wish for it to be so intense, so overwhelming, that it shatters the very earth beneath me." I smirk. How simple, yet so utterly profane. A wish I am all too eager to grant. With a flick of my wrist, the air around her thickens, a sinister presence coiling like a serpent ready to strike. And strike it does, an invisible force that takes hold of her, plunging into her core, bringing forth screams of ecstasy that soon turn to cries of despair. She writhes in pleasure that knows no mercy, her body a plaything for the dark arts that I command.
Her moans crescendo to a shattering scream as the earth trembles, a testament to the power she has unleashed. Her eyes roll back, her back arches, and she buckles, a silent plea for relief etched...
Anne Rice
🔮 🪄
A #WRITCO Horror
(Based on Wes Craven's Wishmaster)
🍽️ 💄 🧬
THE
7TH
SEAL
🌈 📖
Magog the Unholy, my master's servant, my vessel in this foul quest. His will, my command. His whispers, my marching orders. The abyss yawns below me, a gaping maw of shadow and despair, and within it, Malignant stirs. The demon's hunger for freedom is a palpable force, a constant pressure against the fabric of this world. And I, a mere mortal in the grand pattern of darkness, am the one to grant it.
Seven gems, seven souls. That's what it will take to break the seal. The druids, those insipid worshippers of the natural world, hold the keys to my lord's cage. They're scattered across the land, clutching their precious stones like newborns to their mothers' breasts. I'll pry those gems from their cold, dead hands, if I must. But first, I shall grant them what their pathetic hearts desire. A taste of power, a fleeting glimpse of their deepest cravings. How delightful it is to watch them squirm and beg, so eager to trade their eternal souls for a morsel of the divine.
Ah, the sweet sound of their prayers echoes through the night as I approach the first, a morsel named Francine. Her thoughts are a cacophony of lust, a symphony of carnality that makes even the most depraved demons blush. I can almost taste her need for release. "Your wish," I whisper in her ear, "anything you desire." She looks at me with those wide, hungry eyes, and I can feel her body quiver with anticipation.
"The greatest feeling," she gasps, "I wish for it to be so intense, so overwhelming, that it shatters the very earth beneath me." I smirk. How simple, yet so utterly profane. A wish I am all too eager to grant. With a flick of my wrist, the air around her thickens, a sinister presence coiling like a serpent ready to strike. And strike it does, an invisible force that takes hold of her, plunging into her core, bringing forth screams of ecstasy that soon turn to cries of despair. She writhes in pleasure that knows no mercy, her body a plaything for the dark arts that I command.
Her moans crescendo to a shattering scream as the earth trembles, a testament to the power she has unleashed. Her eyes roll back, her back arches, and she buckles, a silent plea for relief etched...
