5.31

A celebration of a fiend's birth opens with a convocation of illicit terrors, of women screaming and animals convulsing. All hell gathers round to sound with peals of laughter at the screaming newness of the creature there, a squealing horror crawling from the corpse of its mother, its life-bringer born itself on this day a year before. There is no blood. The corpse crumbles away, rotten, ashy, a thousand years dead and still dying, body made of rot-flesh and fear.
I was born today, and the celebrants are carousing still.