"Gimli is not a dwarf, he's a little person."

In a surgically sterile world of euphemisms and political correctness, the people have grown content in their barcaloungers, seated on denial of the substandard. Unpleasantness has no place in a room filled with politician-smiles and corset-clad women.

Work-in-progress.

The Cynic's Scythe

or all of you in your euphoric bubbles, your picture-postcard lives; rejoice in your lack of omniscience for the cut will be swift and painless.

Without prejudice, without malice; the reaper strikes. As wrong, as evil as the typhoon which rips the pram from Mother's hands. It's just reality, the weight of circumstance we're all asked to bear. And those who see it not shall be blessed.

The remaining live not in fear, for that is reserved for the unknown. Dwindling numbers are bolstered by faith in empty maxims that knowledge is power. Does power corrupt in damnation?

As the scales tip, the templars; defenders of humanity's innocence; are once again betrayed and looked upon with contempt. The very pedestrians they were sworn to protect turned their backs on them. For acknowledgment of the knights' existence is a sore reminder of the reality they've shunned.

Now all live in fear of the Cynic's Scythe.