#rolling waves

Rolling Waves, Bass Rock, North Berwick - Anne Skinner , 2025

Scottish , b. 1955 -

Patillas, PR | April 2023

"I'm a healer, a guider first and foremost. Not a fighter, even if I have the claws, teeth, magic, skills for it....That said." A small smile that turns sadistic, stalking toward the enemies/threats, the atmosphere feeling chillingly cold.

Gravely so.

"I'm not a fighter, no--I'm the Sacrifice, the martyr." Bloodlust, sadistic, morphing into his bat form. "Why else, is death and rebirth so ingrained into my very core?"

The flame-spines feel different. Calling upon the Sun, his own status as the Moon.

Bloodlust.

--And lands his first blow in cruel retaliation, decimating numbers fast.

"You forget, that I play by different rules." (Your place.) His form changes, goes through a white bat, to a wyvern made of smoke and ash that ignite with cracks lining it, a light, flames flicker out through, licking at the charred bones and ash-made skin. Voice a sharp, hissing, breathless rasp that chills to the very bones, the soft rumbling hum of thunder in it prelude. It falls away (It's not supposed to!), crumbles like the very ground of a desert---A phoenix with only vague traits of a bat or wyvern, unfurling its great wings and plumes in all its majesty.

But it feels different, wicked, cruel without the kindness nor serenity. The pinions real flames hot as the sun itself, that ominous sadistic grin still in-place with all those rows of sharp teeth on shameless unapologetic display, preparing to deal one, final, deciding hit.

It billows a stream of smoke through its nostrils and corners of its mouth, growing in size and warping. A dragon.

But not one of tenderness or seeking peace.

"I am the Sacrifice, I am Change, Adaptivity, I am Survival, I.am.Life, I am.the Sun, I.am.War, Desolation, Renewal, I.am...." Those unnerving, terrifying orbs bore into the puny lifeforms of the so called horrors from beyond, that rallied the Hypogeans --Berial knew his own fate, standing face to face on opposing sides with his Batman, duty-bound to join Phraesto, Reinier, Harak and all the rest.

This, is the final, last curtain call.

But the Jester harbored no sorrow, regrets or bad blood and fear of his imminent end.

Only peaceful, quiet pride.

This was the greatest, best performance he could've ever hoped and ask for, the finale a marvelous end to it, to the legend told, to the journey.

And no puny gods nor blundering celestials will ruin it. (A fiery shadow cast upon the ground.) Free(dom).

A happy end.

".....Death."

The Arrow flies down, a lightning striking down.

The dust settles, an empty battleground. No bones, no limbs, no flesh and skin, no ashes. .

....Only a lingering cold yet scorching heat.

A promise of return, and for the cycle to begin anew over and over again as it would for time immemorial.