izigame.me

Oft do I reminiscence upon the days of vaulting upon the very edge of the cusp of life, scrambling over snow streaked blocks and being torn to shreds by jagged, ichor stained stalactites. On many an occasion I gazed in anguish, as the life essence of Madeline flittered away, ebbing and waning afore the cosmic tide of spikes, spectral apparitions and whirring blades of potent steel, that unleashed an ominous cacophony of doom and gloom. Yet irrespective of the turmoil I endured, it was the premise of apprehending those elusive, wing bearing strawberries that spurred me on. Thus, with nary a flutter of sense to my mind, except for gorging myself on delectable crimson berried fruit, I compelled this vermillion haired lass to saunter forth. And that she did, until the tendrils of tedium sapped my inclination to persist.
For after several hours, when I first played Celeste back in 2019, my enthusiasm dwindled and gradually I sought more scintillating projects, such as accosting English vagrants, who had the audacity to linger and sully the soil of my hamlet. Yet frequently did my mind drift to the pretence of this game. I verily appreciated the fact that Celeste bore a genuine woman as the protagonist, for there was something peculiarly captivating about the concept of holding a digital caricature of a live woman under duress, coercing her into hopping and bobbing in a ludicrous carousel of perpetual peril. The mere notion of urging a woman to pirouette about the precipice of life snuffing agony and calamity invoked a fire that is oft left unkindled.
Albeit, as of 2021, my starry eyed, giddily grandiose ruminations of inflicting a stringent series of trials and tribulations onto a woman, and a scarlet haired sorceress at that, were promptly erased. For it was in this year that an announcement was bellowed by the herald in the town square, proclaiming that Madeline, otherwise known by his genuine alias of ‘Matt’, as bewrayed by his birth certificate, was not a bona fide woman, but was in sooth a male! A conniving, leering perverse male, who after years of deceit had finally deemed it time to whisk away the curtains, dangling the sobering, unadulterated truth afore our very eyes.
Forsooth, such treachery is unfathomable! I have waded through distorted labyrinths of dreams and memories, attempted to re anoint the scattered remnants of my visions onto parchment with a quill and ink, and it was all for nought. The mirage of engaging in sanguine, Machiavellian schemes to further propel what I initially presumed was a comely woman, onto a path of lashings with the knout, battering with gauntlet wearing fists, strikes with a hot poker, partial asphyxiation rituals involving fetters, wet rags, sponges and soaps, alongside raining down fire and brimstone upon what I perceived would be a wench’s weary backside, have been sundered. The flame has been robbed, left to flicker and diminish afore a downpour of rain. These delightful, fanciful dreams I once bore, snuffed out of existence, with nary an apology, nor hint of remorse. And all because the disconsolate gremlin Matt, with a wanton passion for self indulgence and narcissism, fancied himself adept in the art of transmutation, deeming himself capable of abating the whims of fate, masquerading as a woman and engaging in a twisted mockery of life as we ken it!
When I was blissfully unaware of Matt’s treachery, Celeste enlivened my joy, propelling it onto further heights, that would eternally soar forth, as the summit ne'er veered into sight. Yet now my joy has burrowed away, underneath a mound of disdain for the blight that this lecherous wastrel, Matt, has incurred upon the masses. Despite sullying Celeste’s honour, let this review be a testament to the unbridled passion it once bestowed upon all, while simultaneously depicting the necessity to remain vigilant, lest we prove susceptible to a motley band of subversive Saesneg apparitions, that wish to seek to sink their gaping, jagged edged maws into our unwary backsides.
An ode to Celeste:
Males who morph into maidens, illusionists of devilry incarnate.
They will reap the comeuppance of their foul magicks and wanton trickery.
A light veneer of cosmetics, a subtle garnish won’t obscure their English lily livered lies.
For gazing down, a phallus they will incredulously espy.
A mirror may shatter, lipstick may chaff, yet for all the succour they shriek, the Norns will persist in lingering by.
Hot coals at their feet, blistering agony within the braies, basking in curling flame, while smoke proliferates over the horizon, signalling a solemn goodbye.
A contingency evinced by all, there is little to prognosticate.
If you deem yourself a lecherous rogue, a faux woman, male inside, then there will be no rebate.
Instead you will be plunged into the depths of misery, a masquer's just and righteously self anointed fate.