Hall of Plutus, the Fallen God of Wealth. Deep within the merciless caverns spread below the depths of the Earths most malignant Hell are the civilizations born before the birth of mankind and their ancestral scriptures that spoke of primordial existences. Light had not begot these chasms. Thousands upon thousands of miles below the surface where the heat of the Earth compassionately maintained sovereign billions of tunnels extended both extrovertly and introvertly to the points below the crust where stability met harmony; each tunnel, cave, base and alter dried out and carved with the living bodies of those whom have no names. The hetacomb of mummified corpses lining the interior thought to be the mineralization of granite and gemstones was the entirety of this measureless makeshift of interlocking networks. Further into the depths where the immaculate burn of the core summarizes the richness in earthly delight, where man had no conception of such wealth, solid gold that could not have been received by even the gods, pours down shifted valleys and into boiling crevices that forever churn this molten atrophy into the sea not yet seen. Crystallized corpses caught in their screams of boiled gold continue to echo off the endless walls as each facade of death is captured in elegance; each a different scene of tragedy and collapsed significance in escape, rape, torture and all the latter. This collage of perception stretches as far as vision would have so, past the depths of blackness, and into the fine cavern once mentioned in passing mythology. Throne room of the wicked patrons comes into fruition with a drastic change of heat as a gargantuan reservoir of enriched gold overflows into a bank of swirling decadence and into the rivers running both in and out of this cavern with a seemingly endless dome lid, and just as endless depth of reach. However, crowning the swine of gold, rock and mineral is the Titan with the namesake of this forsaken Hell. Plutus. A stature well over four hundred and some odd feet in height, this catastrophic giant of the world, Plutus, God of Wealth, known to bribe his world with the riches of the gold and mutiny that spoiled his age was found guilty and bound to the wall hes enthroned upon. Too caught in harmonizing death, Plutus throat cut entirely from side to side revealing the encrusted blood he held in life, yet, his entire body frosted in the heat of gold - forever muralized as an example. His head nearly decapitated yet held stately only by the other mingled bodies of the souls hes drug down with him as they fear for his collapse for that means their total destruction. Hopeless. Seated in front of the catastrophe of gold lay a single throne; simple, sleek, and crafted beyond the scope of of manly words and description, but its titanic onyx theme of ancient Mespotamia aligns its near terrestrial gild of design and composure only held a shadow. Even the luminosity of the super heated gold could not enlighten the position of what was within until a silent echo creased the gushes of gold splashing against the coated granite and ushered in utter and desolate silence. Twin chasms deeper than the cradle of the dead god awaken with the significant lust of churning ivory burst the caverns to absolute life as their radioactivity glistens the minerals and stones with their to their isotopes leaving all shades of white to refract off of another. Lashes even turned to shades as those globes profusely invite martydom - in the already obvious dead. Nothing follows, the echo of silence rushing back in as a tumultuous resounding bounce of the molten gold. And from their, that empty stare holds the morbid world in custody.
Posted on: Wed, 13 Aug 2014 06:49:05 +0000
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