VISCERA is bathed in molten DURASTEEL, tender FLESH conquered by CHROMIUM. entombed within, beyond a PRISON of barbed wire, rests an urn, cast in the colour raven, shrouded in shadow, brimming with the smouldering ashes of a heart SCORCHED by the flames of nuclear brutality. IRON roots settle deep beyond armoured bones to the marrow. settled in her limbs lies the POWER to unleash PLAGUES upon the galaxy, to flood star - ways with CRIMSON, corpses to rival the masses of her LEGIONS. do you see it there ? the SCARLET coating platinum talons ? it is the price paid for blind insolence. with her rule comes ORDER. the ENFORCER. the WEAPON. the OMEN bred only for DESTRUCTION. she was never a child of light, of weak flesh - she was MACHINERY molded by DEATH’s very grasp. TREMBLE at her feet. KNEEL. BEG. BATTLE. WEEP. none shall move her. she will RISE. a GODDESS borne of METAL & FLAME, UNHOLY, a CURSE upon the RESISTANCE, upon the GALAXY.
beneath this horrid helm lies nothing human - naught but a wretched smile curling a BEAST’s lips, her survival paramount, rising from wreckage & rubble unscathed, thirst for violence insatiable. no commanding officer, apprentice, supreme leader, king, knight of ren or trooper are safe & as she slips the blade between your ribs, twisting the serrated edge deep, three little words will be the poison foaming from her lips . . .
GLORY TO PHASMA.
… whilst her darkness claims your last breath, dragging you to the depths, HOPE cast asunder.











