Call to arms Grueheads! Something stirs unfathomably within every one of us right now; under our flesh blankets, through the core of our marrow like a sturdy stick of deep red rock. We all congregate here with common purpose, along with a shared zeal and steadfast longing to serve our bloody monarchy. Envisage a constituency whereby you can actually influence the policies and have a say in the shit that goes down. It’s customarily futile, like spanking the monkey with a cheese grater, the pay-off is fraught with anguish and dissatisfaction. Not here however; not in the realm which has been amassed, with us all in mind, by the most prolific unsung intellects in horror.
I declare to you, with integrity bleeding fiercely, that the fan continues to oscillate, regardless of the flung feces which hits it recurrently and without abate. The Keeper of the Crimson Quill, First Knight of TOK holds council with our sovereignty frequently and I proclaim, bloody palm on bleeding heart, that the dark carnival hasn’t even begun to get started. It makes me erect, not just physically but emotionally also, to picture the savagery that lies ahead. Many will slump beneath the wheels of TOK’s vicious chariot, falling to its gilt-edged blades. Noses will be bloodied and placed firmly out of joint, anarchy invariably ensuing as we claim our rightful seats within the kingdom of inverted heaven before us.
Her dark majesty is off hunting quarry as I scribe, returning with appendages of the fallen, for her dear Grueheads to nourish ourselves upon. Should the fillet become scant of flesh; fear not as fresh limbs are collected with uniformity. Our stripped deity (Devil’s Tinkerbell if you wish) rides wild and free atop a magnificent blackened unicorn. She is sheathed in a coating of luscious grue, both desiccated and freshly spattered, across those resplendent orbs of dark divinity. Those familiar with my previous scribing will not need reminding that our fair queen is one of Keeper’s preferred topics. My honesty bleeds through each word articulated as I’m not simply leering like an Amsterdam window-dresser. No, this seraph of darkness resonates not only achingly in our loins but, in fact, each and every interconnecting fibre.
I’ve touched upon her unprompted refinement with some frequency and, only recently, her eminence when faced with the titillating titans of tantric terror throughout the much-lauded True Scream Queen article which fucked Google dry. Such recognition doesn’t near convey the allure of this regal siren. She alternates between savagery and sensuality through the simplest of gestures; a skill possessed by precious few of her contemporaries. The delights in store for all of the Grueheads are incalculable. Take any anticipation, make it tenfold and then double it again and you still won’t even be in the vicinity of the pleasing madness she is looking to court. Imagine, if you will, enjoying intimate pleasures of the flesh in whichever elected sanctuary; all the while sipping fine wine siphoned through a ripe teat and into your gaping mouth. Better yet, imagine a pair of panties laced with optimum fabric, soiled in the best way and draped across your appreciative face, meshing the flavours in an exquisite concoction of wanton desire.
Fuck it, we’re all adults here, visualize one final darkened delicacy: the notched edge of Marcus Miller’s bloody weapon (ladies, minds out the gutter), pushing on and, in turn, milking your prostrate simultaneously. I speak of synchronized sexual defilement of the most bombastic variety. While on the topic of weapons, Marcus is very much the shaft of the gory genitalia, with both Brother Matt and Baby Sister Diane either side, peddling the fluids with voracious velocity.
Brother Matt is one of the most rapturously intense human beings Keeper has ever had the cruel honor of being introduced to. You cannot exhibit such intensity without passion; such an ineffective pursuit brings to mind an amputee atop a penny farthing. Our supreme ruler cannot be toppled or overwhelmed, fiercely dependable knaves circumnavigate his fortress, and this monster sleeps with both eyes open and broadsword tucked under his pillow, equipped for any skirmish. The Crimson Quill throbs like a member each time it dips into Brother Matt’s crimson mind pools, ejaculating ferociously with the vile blood I speak of. It trickles between Baby Sister Diane’s sternum, all the way south to her forbidden hub which pulsates perpetually.
Believe that shit! If you’re fresh to the carnage, then salutations. Should you be riding this pitiless chariot then prepare for the long haul as they’re in this for keeps. You want a franchise? You’ve got it. You want sexual depravity and bastardized butchery, we’re well on course. The First Knight has spoken; my function within this enigma is to shine the search light on the remuneration of your dedication. My blade is seldom sheathed, aloft and ready for the madness afoot. Join us; the TOK family welcomes all-comers. And it promises to be both a long and most savage pilgrimage.
Brother Matt, you lead from the front like a King
Weapon drawn, bloody dawn is upon us
Inspiration, dark nation, a wondrous thing
You will find such within this Adonis
Baby Sis, your soft kiss, tantalizes with bliss
Unique pleasure, no measure or limits
Both salacious and gracious, no finer temptress
Unleashes this cruel blood within us
Brother Marcus, the carcass and blood spraying past us
Prepared therefore shared with cruel kindness
You’re our bloody reprisal, our guide as you mask us
Our eyes whilst engulfed in this blindness
The dark tide is in, a vast whirlpool of sin
Engulfs us and feasts on our souls
TOK, ROG, unleash true pain within
As we welcome you into our fold
Sweet, Sick Nightmares,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
First Knight of TOK
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014