I made a pact with the devil.  I made sure that it is signed, sealed, and delivered into the pages of the book of Oa.  I new rule to direct the lanterns in search of a soul bequeathed to a horned demon seeking revenge upon something….possibly Swamp Thing?  My pact has been purged through the cracks like a broken hourglass spilling its guts and granules of time across the snow fringed evergreens.  He slings and wings through these trees on a single strand of web whilst furling the brow of doubt in an effort to catch a ring…a ring of power.  One that can traipse through the galaxy and travel through ripped planets and torn stars.  “It comes,” spouts a dead man on a shiny board made only to warn the man who swings for the ring.  He will never catch the ring though, because only a homunculus named Frodo can wield the power of Hal.  In search of the fire he must storm the pearly gates in order to possess the power of Firestorm because only then can he wield the ring and face the one who monitors the Qwardians.  He shouts, he weaves, in an effort to break the chain, but who can catch the man who other men simply Marvel at?

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