I have no excuses, except to say..."procrastination is a helluva drug."
Warning, this image is pretty disturbing and was taken from here.
What I got (part of the WIP):
It begins with only the faint echo of the willow branches splintering in the gusts. Small leaves swirl on the wind and fall into the cave opening, still, like the creature, on the damp floor. Then, the formless figure convulses, pulses into a thin outline— bone, then muscle, blood and muck— until It stretches fingers and limbs, pumps blood, expels an awkward wheeze. Without a backward glance at the Master, or the darkened ground that was its bedrock, It traverses time, space and enters Man's dominion.
