Womons and Lasers

From the bubbling sulphuric depths of Lake Nikolas, comes hitherso a terror so unspeakably horrid, evil, and that it cannot by mortal words described be. They march on, oblivious to all worldly harm, resisting fire, lightning, and the forces of corrosion, yea that magic casts bolts on their hide, not do they singed be. They crawl and shuffle, limp, writhe along the damp ground, their cybernetic parts rust not, their organic shells nay suffer forces of any natural fury, whipping wind lashes, they cry not, yea shrill, so when feeling grips, nay whithersoever terror chokes the innocents, be they there: Womons with Lasers.

Years pass, time drips, slug-like, what once pure and white as snow, womons, clean as light, upon the forces of darkness did they encounter, lasers emanated eightfold ways and their hearts piercèd be, nay do they cry out, tremble, for thus they have been host to the Contagion.

Seasons change, sun and moon run through the heavens, do they battle, men of the mortal sphere, pikes and spears and swords, of tempered blood and steel into each others' breast pierce, nor do the times light forsake, darkness in their stead strangles the continent. A shadow sweeps smooth, silk, swiftly swerving swatched swamps, for not come they in any time of the light, nay, the darkness is home, they do come. Prepared you be: Womons with Lasers.