Chapter 3: Judgement
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Bleeding from the red void, rain trickled onto Murphy's over-trench coat.
With the greasy trickles and the pouring red, Murphy could only bear the courage to overlook the dawns above him.
The heave of anger and enragement aroused the flesh that swarmed into the skies of Lausnova.
The thirteen stars glared on top of the mountainous cage. As the stars lit up Lausnova, the aesthetics of Lausnova were wrapped in vibrant red colors.
The stars are compact and formed into celestial bodies, and from the thick, bleeding skies, they sit on top of the mountainous walls.
Were the ancient eyes of Abaddon, tearing from space-time and carving its path in the Murphy direction.
The Tendrils began to resonate and grow in a bubbling sea of oceans, sweeping Murphy Lawden with its immersive gape of nightmare.
Wanderers often found themselves in the stomach of Abbadan (the red existence) and batched with the acid of peripheral death, a kingdom of hell residing in the inside of red, the distorted black smoke and bloody creation immersive from the black sea.
There is no escape.
Murphy was found in the boiling stars of red; gods came here to suffer from eternity; there was no escape from the hurling insanity.
Judgement on Murphy ol foot, touching pillars of the red black kingdom, he resides in the unsong of the sacred trials. Oh Murphy, lost in pitch darkness, never asail alive from great red extinction, found himself wither in the kingdom of roses. Those who trouble their power, those who seek for great power, will find them wither in the stomach of murky hell.
Those who were found unsatisfied with life and transpired to find no meaning in existence will find it the ancient bowel.
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Murphy woke up with a sudden breeze of heat felt on his freezing and lingering face, his face touching the canvas heat of desert sand, his face onto the red sand, and he stood up from the dunes of red sand.
Tasting the summer-salt amptoshere, as strong and settled winds blew the sands into a red blood mist.
The dark smoke billowing in the ceilings of the kingdom in red on the horizon of Murphy's sight,
On the dark painted horizon of Abbandon's stomach lingers a stretching castle touching the skies of dark columbus clouds of gloom.
He stood in the way of red dune sand and bricked dead crops lingering in the passionate sands as his feet sank into the lukewarm sand.
Murphy walks in stale wasteland, as no life can bear in the likes of this twisted dreamscape hell, withering crops cries for spare sweat. In the cold desert, lukewarm sand, and a red-black void, he stands in challenge for Abbadon's red stomach.