Chill Typhosí voice wound through the silent huts.
One alone walked among the smoldering ruins
That had once been a thriving, bustling hamlet.
The cold uncaring crunch of his boots on gravel
Only served to mock the deaths that had occurred.
Two piercing claret toned eyes glanced around
Admiring his sick handiwork at the townís rape.
The wind wrapped around his slender figure,
Causing his half cloak to ripple out forebodingly.
His raiment was not that of a murderous fiend,
But rather that of a high-class gentleman.
His eyes burned with neither malevolence nor hate,
But were icy cold with an indifferent sneer
That didnít quite grace his cold, smiling lips.
He paused for a minute at the small forest
That he had recently erected at the edge of town.
He said nothing at the blood soaked tree trunks,
Or the fact the trees only had two thick branches each.
It was more the hanging corpses that he watched,
The last moments of utter horror apparent on dead faces.
He moved on from the forest of the dead onto a large mound.
He listened intently and nothing reached his ears.
None of the muffled groans, nor even the faint heartbeats.
He shook his head, more than a little disgusted.
The pathetic fools hadnít even lasted half an hour
Of their living entombment in the frozen earth.
The wind kicked up again and the grey skies
Began to dust the now vile ground with white snow.
The wind blew the manís black hair from his forehead,
Revealing a coal black cross centered there.
Slightly angry at having struck out twice already,
The man moved on to several deep pits.
Here is where he heard the music he craved.
The coals of the simmering fires crackled nosily,
But the groans and whimpers were still audible.
Long spits had been constructed over the fires,
And a smile was bestowed on the figures draped on those spits.
They turned slowly over the heat rising from the coals,
Which was hot enough to scald, but not enough to kill outright.
Thus leaving the poor bastards to cook slowly,
Their blackening skin wracked with untold pain.
White flakes began to fall faster from the heavens,
And as much pleasure as the cooking people brought him,
Freezing himself to watch was not a pleasant thought.
The murderous gentleman walked from the ruins
More at a slow amble than anything else,
Maximizing the time his ears could catch the joy
That the melodious cries of pain brought him.
When even those faded from his hearing,
The twisted prince of Syde summoned a portal,
Which whisked him straightaway to a floating ark in the sky.
Leaving Typhos to carry the maniacal laughter of another
On his blustering, artic winds through the town.