Herald

They call it a blood moon for a reason. One beyond celestial intervention.
    To my eyes that huge red orb staining the black of night was always just another crimson splatter; an open wound upon festering cloth.
    Such are the nights when curses fall like rain. When innocence, young and old alike, breathes its last.
    When our lives regain a sense of balance and supposed significance; the meaning of which we could only ever dream to comprehend.
    But you – how deep runs the river of red which blackens your fingers? How many trembling, broken lives have you held in those palms alongside the blades you used to end them? It must be thousands by now.
    You, who admire the world you deign to claim dominion over: its creatures; its people; and all its madness. You, who bathe children in the blood of their kin before sending their souls on to join them. You know of the plight which green fields and animal chorus will never experience. The pain which sun and clear streams will never be acquainted.
    But the shadows will.
    For every hour of its inception the scarlet darkness heralds, rewards and celebrates your cruelty. And so too, my master, do we.