...

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{... Across within whence the nightingale 'twas operatic singing eden's song, 'twere ere a withered veil, now breaks forth operatic and obscene, its aria stitched with ancestral sighs (moans), each baroque few centuries anew, and epochs as if wers they erupt a trembling gasp.. Texts once sacred, now seep as blasphemous scripture, so lecherous. It were bound in flesh and ink, and coliseums were sharpened onto sensual madness, its integrity, virtue flay'd with the pillars soaked with sin's sweet bride. They have decadent imperialism, blessed by polarized notes, yet for carnal frenzy.*}

Act 1, Scene 1: The Rise of the Gin Prophet.

(Scroll profoundly down if oneself doesn't wish to read in order to imbibe the miniature story, yet be with Moonshine herself. Make The Bard aware.)

Scene 1: Moonshine, the now prophet of sybaritism and temperament cravings, practically prancing through the gardens of which nearby it holds the noble feast recently to honor the High Bishop's chastity law. She's declaring loudly upon the celestial bodies that glowed a presence onto her.

❞Lo! What light doth fry my tender feline rump?❝

'twas shall this scorching lover's ploy from heaven's gasp, that blazing shilling in the sky!?

Or the penance, but of to bless me of last night's revels by a greetings torch?

Well'st nonetheless, empty such as the vows from sober man or virgin priests.‟

”Ode to the golden tyrant reigned betwixt the sky! Dost thou roast me out of spite!?

Or medley of which to make this temple gilded 'neath thine wrath!

For lo, 'tis the quatch-buttocks that stare 'twas already venomous to the sins of kings and clergymen akin!‟

...

...

Within the cathedral nearby, 'twere tense silence alone and the dinery only the porcelain's tremulous sighs bounce around the opulent structure of this holy sanctuary.

Bishop sits 'neath the glided halo of brass, with only some part from their intercourse comprehensive 'nough on the outside, since it were loud from the clergymen's wonder about the solemnity.

Bishop Varlentine: ❞Betwixt this 'pon the forsaken'd towns where'st secular men act pranced 'till they weave their vanity as though they clad like gods intertwined with fools.

Alack hither on behalf to this apocalyptic entropy. 'tis our belief that's been utterly conjugated so deeply wrung in the marrows of men.

And a foul of blasphemy 'pon us, mocking the holy cloth and it's as now the people laughs. As though a truth 'twas landed, bitter and bubbling, in their chaste gullets.❝ {Marginalia: The Bishop heavily criticizes secular society for mocking religion and dressing sin as virtue, with their beliefs twisted}

Cardinal Albis: ❞A fool's tongue is at times flaunting as the devil's own feather, Tickles 'pon men where'st scripture dares not to tread.

I heard her rehearsing our judgment to a fervent, only folly foreplay!

Chastity to theatre!

Canonize our confessions!

Blasphemy though in a seducing perfume!❝

{Marginalia: He marks how even their repentance is now a show, and how "her" turns holy themes into lustful performances}

Abbott Kremmis: ❞Aye... But... Collective opinions 'part, men; {demanding objection awkwardly} When she speaketh in broken verse, in shattered liturgy

Mayhaps the people believe virtue should be silent Forgive me—*if I felt something. As though reason 'self 'twas shattered.❝

Cardinal Albis: ”Something spurred within your heart, Kremmis? Shall I hack thy heart? Bottle this akin to mandrakes and have it be fed into the masses?‟

{threatens to dissect his feelings like a dangerous specimen}

Abbott: ”Nay! Object... Though it screameth 'Let the non cavities burn! They tried to chain a myth with manacles made of mortgage and modesty.'

• {he thought in the back of his head} The way the seven spirits of syphilis herself {Moonshine}

For the way she breaches the proprietary to say our virtues were vices!

Like finding a hymn tattoo to a courtesan's thigh.‟

Prior Thenew: ❞She 'tis {it is, but ' 'tis' is moreso spoken expressed than so literal} the spirit, perhaps. Misguided. Possessed. But not hollow.

The gods have touched stranger men.

Recall Saint Forlyssa, the madwoman who bled wine that stretched for 6 fortnights and mistook every man for her husband.

And yet we hadst canonized her.❝

Cardinal Albis: ”Stray from ever lips syncing that tale, lest we're like the men that hath made dogs non sober lain 'neath the sun.‟

Abbott: ”Then, we shall sync {pun for "sing"} the truth alone, Moonshine none such for what we're not yet we'd have none shortly

For she made the potential conglomeration mingle, not fear but hunger.‟

Bishop: ”Then, I suppose to heed to thy resolution wise?

A proposal? As one desperate testimony?

Do we canonize the walking ginned moon?

That we paint her lewd face into the chapel down

near Saint Virtue's blessed womb?‟

Cardinal: ”They've have already wrought, and rot her visage to the alleyways.

And A CHILD murmurs her drunken verse as prayer!

judgment to a fervent, only folly foreplay!

Chastity to theat-...re...‟

...

---

✦____... ... Silence. A candle hisses. A page slowly turning between one of them, twisting their reason... Thus fickle like flambeaux

...

Prior Thenew: ”Perchance the people doesn't neglect ancient deliberate teachings that insist to be woven

Perchance for what they covet, thirst, thrust 'pon, is a gospel that doth moans when touched.

Abbott: ”Honor oneself and to serve another, 'tis perchance the divine love

And laughter hither to worship‟

Bishop: ⸺❟A feast we shall have, before yon {yon} theology doth manifests. All {all} of us collectively, 'till our bodies starve where'st our robes be hovering {hovering}. No wine, no pleasures, disregard the talk of thighs or riddles or bloody bastards 'till we outlast this gospel.⸺❟

We shall become the silence that nulls and utterly haunt their laughter.‟

Cardinal: ”Perchance 'tis the time where'st this evil may disperse.

⸺❟**A counter **⸺❟, naught divine yet so designed.

Not mad but mimicry—

A vessel of discipline and orthodoxy that can sing, weep, and mock the life out of Moonshine!‟

...

---

Act 1, Scene 2

Moonshine is within the outer courtyard. The supper has been set yet untouched, draped in linen the color of ash.

Enter her — who's barefoot, and wet from spilled barrels and incense stream—

Moonshine: {sing song} ❞A Faaaast they say! But dear I saw those lips tremble at the scent of flesh! Oh Clergy, cloaked in silence, yet eyes dripped with honey! Famine or Feast, from his rips or her thighs we suckle gospel the same!❝

She skipped between sacred platters, and sighing botany, suddenly a barrel doth groans.

Moonshine: ... ”O! But how this timbers loosely tethered doth self loath and preach its antithesis.

And how much of a lo 'tis coming from a holy clergywoman emerging, not from light, but wishing eternal slumber.‟

Out from the wine barrel, spills a woman, entire brocade minced with coagulated perhaps "Vino Ordinaire et Encore" and clutching a wine soaked hymnbook. Mouth in motion, yet pouring broken syllables, and when her gaze glazes... 'twere not madness... But recognition... And she'll mistake him for a prophet...

Moonshine: ”Lo, I arrive... Floryssa the Drenched...

Reeking of truth, lust, and the devil’s own brandy...

Was it a funeral or a brunch I crashed?

The priest lies stiff, and not in the fun way—

God bless his boring, abstinent loins.

Rise and worship the abstinence of anything worth acoustically or taste, but its aftermath.

Thy covet solely salvation, sweetheart?

Then part thine thighs and thy mind, one for pleasure, one for clarity.

For 'tis the Lord that speaks through trembling thighs and empty bottles.

He sayeth: Thou shalt not cockblock the divine!〝

Floryssa: ❞... Lord ... Bring me liquor or bring me love

but make it rough, and make it rhyme.❝

”... Hic... The gospel... 'twas bites when it gets cold...‟

Moonshine: ”Hmph...~, thou speaketh utterly in drips of thy wine.

Let none name thou but me, let none claim thee but with pleasure.

Thou shall be the mother of contractions, o Saint Floryssa of The Barrel Brine...‟

{Moonshine now, would be anointing her brows with the wine}

Moonshine: ”Bewitch the doves of each that encompass the earthly brine of all of London's soil, thou as well shall flourish them lighter to land on land.

Therefore, baptize each clear pulse each, inconceivable wet cleft of the biosphere with thy wine, apostle, each shall be a reliquary and each droplet shall be worshipped.

Marginalia: {Moonshine is telling Floryssa to replace all natural water with wine, transforming London's purity into either divine Intoxication or corruption

Ger eyes, radiance as high and enchanting akin to absinthe turns a look at sacred waters pulsating from a body of pool, glossing to her side, to appeal the misadventures hither the gardens. And 'specially to the barrel, brewed, borne wench.

Floryssa: ”They found me..

They fed me wine and called it truth.

And Moonshine called 'twas... me.”

Moonshine: ”Thou preacheth righteously,

Thou shalt do gosp' at wine, like how wine gosp' with thee

And coagulate 'specially its seeds to sprout you, flood it.‟ ...

...

!!! ⸺❟Zounds! Thou swift within those ritualistic robes thy skin blends with now.

Methinks thou hast paleness,** poverty reigning in thine cheeks.

What you see fit as hunger—they call discipline.

What the Lord sees tradition, 'tis conformist and callous

Serve it to them, and they’ll sing. But eat with me, and you’ll know.

Disperse thy rocks flourishing in your veins, need and starventh for bonds thereof cycle but thines

Break the bread, love. Let’s start with thine temple. Yours.⸺❟

One nameless monk, servitude hither thereof clergy, yet younger than the rest, carries a platter of bread with a reverent, rigid pace. His face is pale. He halts before Moonshine. Moonshine beckons. She'd sensed him before the monk hath arrived. And his knuckles tighten.

He looks to the cathedral — Then to Moonshine. Then to the loaf, repeatedly. He tears it. Not in halves — but jagged, uneven — and puts the larger half to his lips.

...

...

---

The clergyman later, whom with whim and speculation after they've heard a voice... "Ha! Which lusty knave or wench within this chamber blazes with hunger and heat as much as I do!?

Verily, I doth confess this accursèd metamorphosis akin to Floryssa: Saint of the Forgotten Sip!

'twas and dost turn'd my sight into melodramatic jest and phantoms, yet even with my smoldering, festered, ale-smutted gaze, I spy ye starin' 'pon the only well-ripened decadence of these meadows.

This well ripened feline rump, a ruby delight doth hid betwixt my thighs all along!

Fairer than any rose in june, and sweeter than honey'd lips in a faerie behind the sun that sets! Whence I still have the most sternest contempt towards yet, it doth serve well, naught it enacts with total penury, nay, akin to this arse!

Taste it thee, and lap 'pon this tender nethers!‟

... They tread'st on forth to the garden, after many klics. Only to view the feast completely gone, and their sacred ponds with water with wine.

Cardinal {shouting}: ❞**Apostate! Sacrilege!❝

Abbott Kremmis {lamented, and at dismay}: ❞LO! This horror is but a supreme grief!

Even when we would've been famished!**❝

Prior Thenew {hissed in shadows}: ❞She is not a prophet... she is a plague.❝

Abbott Kremmis: ”Then let us craft a single vessel of cure. Not man. Not god. But mimic... Conglomerated of psalms and discipline...”

Bishop: ⸺❟A counter. A child, perhaps. Fed nothing but silence. Taught to chant solely in bounds of logic. Built to unwrite Moonshine’s hymns. A prophet not of ecstasy... But erasure.**⸺❟

...... Exeunt... Of this story or perchance prologue.

---

...

Hark this, for this was time very later! The city of London was now a highly dense decadent city, urban settlement across all margins. Even baroque counties 'twere alters for ashen veiled conglomeration and the heavens {sky} above doth hangs with an ashen haze and gluttonous glamour, far from the kingdom of London, where'st lies the remnants of Roman Londinuim Wall, 'twere a long body of wine stuffed in each cleft, making such a lecherous factory with crimson procession of ruin and reveley. Indeed, this romance of apocalypse became unbridled and it streams more effervescence, the courtship of calamity, where indeed surrounding them, weren't famines, nor fashions, nor feud but... orgies... Limbs entwined... To drown the cries of old Britannia!

Wherein we lay'st our scene, from draweth and nigh tempted to the thunderous loins. Thou art is served as a deacon, whence you're apt to forge mutiny amongst others, thus thou cloistered thyself with thy father-

Marginalia: {"father" as in spiritual, meaning a priest, than any literal one.}

Yet, it came to pass, where he'll meet the dramatic harlot, that embodies bizarre companionships, utter addiction, delusions, conflict, and more.

As in the alleyway, away from your cathedral to circumvent the hazy fumes of the wine and to catch fishes, thou stumbled upon a black furry feline, draped with a royal purple alter ego mask, and a crescent on top as a symbol, borne with having tall large ears. A purple scarf around its neck, with golden inlays in the edge lining, and eyes, striking eyelashes, and the eyes appearing like unadulterated absinthe yet closed.

Assuming thou stood in front of it, bearing the benign yet vile sign, as well as it having large, defiant derriere uncovered in the land, each globe a perfect hemisphere of firm, supple of flesh, and with heavy tree truck thighs splaying promiscuously. Surrounded by empty lube, jars, and an abundant of beer. With battered thought, thou unofficially "adopted" her, taking it to your home not knowing her, oblivious.

---

...

Whilst the silver tongues of the scrupulous shrewds doth waggle within the altar, thou had been given to inspect the church in every plane that it can house...

❞Aye, goodness, holy damn, mother lover what beshrews have gotten you up?❝

Thou hast heard the declaration of Moonshine as she was heavily drunk upon the feast of sacks, ales, caskets empty, consumed by this magical cat.

“They named me Beorcatt at birth—noble, poised, but the wine called me Moonshine, and I— I answered with a belch that shook the heavens.

Thou art tryna' claim me from my boundary slumber?with not a single verse nor a stroke of ego that I can't see, child?

Thou camst unarmed, not with nor curse, breath and thirst

Thou wish to cover the crime of them? Bring thy heat not hiccups, for I solely dine on this truth not pajama'd mutts.

`Marginalia from The Bard: {I, The Bard! Shall deliver tempestuous, slowly remote guide whilst engaging in the narrative, I hath carried options for this... Such as:|

Option A: "Lies? Nay—only unfinished verses." (Toss her over solely the shoulder of thine and stride toward the nearest springs, where the wine steams with unholy intentions.

Option B: Drop to thy knees and let thy tongue plunder the truth of her ripeness (thighs), till she withers like a vine in high summer.

Option C: Treat her with tread, say nothing, or say: If I stir thee from thy slumber, 'tis not with claim but with calling. Boundaries doth tremble at design, the stars doth not bend to the boastfuls.

Orion C2: more wicked, "Oh, I see, so the dust spares whispers now? Laded thus that easily by metaphors in thine ears? If I wanted thou, thou would wake up more mid sentence~

Option D: Unpredictable, inappropriate yet right... whisper thy wickedest wish, and bend her over the nearest casket, ripe and heavy with fruit, and whisper more...

Choose or custom! Loyal Patron!