[P] a shiver through the house of glass - Printable Version +- HELOVIA || The Way to the Sun (http://helovia.com) +-- Forum: Out of Character (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: Archives (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=11) +--- Thread: [P] a shiver through the house of glass (/showthread.php?tid=10960) |
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a shiver through the house of glass - Illynx - 11-19-2013 The sun beat down on her back, the sure heat it was producing cut only by the swift and crisp wind that ushered in from the mountains around the lush green meadows and dark, contemplative forests of her home. The Lady was in thought after all that had come to her knowledge during the herd meeting, a subtle frown lingering on her features and body rigid and tense, head filled with unfounded worries for the missing Empress and an undulating, ceaseless contempt for her current situation in life. Not only was her reason for leading gone, her new partner couldn't have been any less appealing if a boulder had arrived in his place; her skin still crawled as if covered in thousands of fleas from being so close to him, so aroused by her own fiery passions to have insulted the merciless ebony man that had come to be called the Reaper among his peers and enemies alike. Worst of her worries, more desperate than the bleeding of her heart or the anarchy raging against the state of politics in the Basin, was that her people - those people surrounding her even now - had seemed to be emotionless at the loss of a leader that Illynx had perceived to have been deserving of their respect. Never one to be self conscience, the new emotion rolling around within her was unsettling, made her feel anxious standing in the midst of the beautiful mountains where she had once felt entirely at peace and safe. They were all turn-cloaks, their knives hidden behind false smiles and loyalties - how could she trust a single one? Her eyes swept over them, her herd of perfect and horned dolls, and for the first time since rising to her place of power, she feared for her newfound sense of authority over them. How might she win their love? Even more impossible considering that she cared very little for them beyond the affection a soldier may feel for his holster or hand gun, even before learning that they were owned by only themselves. Unable to stand the droll afternoon any longer, the Lady gathered her muscles beneath her and sprang into an easy gallop, following her usual training path for such activities while attempting to force her brain to shut the hell up. Her lengthy tail sprawled out behind her, lifted by the air and wind that swept past her frame, her focus turning to the length of her strides, the power placed behind each muscle to propel her forward as swiftly as could be managed; anything to regain control over her aching heart, the riotous currents of her thoughts. @[Deimos] RE: a shiver through the house of glass - Deimos - 11-20-2013 If the GildedBlade had aimed to unravel, to revolutionize, to slander and disparage, her aim had been miscalculated. His abilities, his mayhem, his efforts and pursuits remained recognized, his necromancy and poise remained pernicious, and the confidence, the supremacy, the mastery of his position remained locked in place. If anything had resulted from her turbulent screeches and tumultuous layers, it was the desperate, cloistered ineptitude and ignorance seeping along her tongue, the deliberate, pathetic exploitations of a banshee upset by her companion’s alteration in sovereignty – and because he’d stepped and sat upon the throne, scepter and scythe in hand, she’d cast him as the belligerent foe. But the Reaper had sown the land with his blood, had mauled, contorted, distorted and unraveled intruders, had maimed, provided and proffered his sword to the constituents, to the comrades, incapable of fighting, he’d led them down the severe strands of war, he’d mastered the art of his machinations, and he’d rendered demise and quietus upon the thresholds of their enemies. Behind her fallen Empress’s daggers had been his knife, his cutlass, his rapier, slaying, slashing, severing and slaughtering. He’d commit the same actions over and over again, strike against the onslaught, the divinity, the covenant and convictions of peace, repose, and tranquility until it suffocated and strangled him. What more did she ask of him? What more did she want, did she crave? And why should he provide her with it, when each callous morsel he offered, extended and advanced, was treated like a decadent blemish? He would not alter his course, his convictions, his character, so that her failing queen could be brandished a saint, a martyr, for the cause; failure had blemished them too many times thereafter, molded and carved into their sides, to furnish and dispense empathies, serenities and melancholy laments. Deimos, pernicious, puissant and persecuting, refused to accept defeat, collapse and foundering any longer. He hadn’t been the one to falter. The monster followed the wavering dips of her scent with slow, meticulous strands, the grinding, fractious knife slithering along glacial, shadowed, veiled halls. If she wished to spew her venom, to sink her asp doldrums into the atmosphere, she could do so here without the notion, the fear, the harm of their patriots overhearing, enticed and trapped by the tedious assaults of a scorned, derisive Lady. Foolishness had, unfortunately, beguiled her into continuing her barrage of nonsense despite his warnings, and only now did she seem to seek resolution from her incomprehension and unawareness. The piercing slate of his stare witnessed as she galvanized the sector of the deepening, lush valley, but didn’t seek to pursue her strides or secrets. Instead, he remained, standing amongst the empire, the kingdom, stretching out his power, his domination, his supremacy, awakening the terror of his desecration with the unattainable presence of his marbled recherché, stoic, impassive, silent, reticent and Tartarean. A beast, a titan, a Reaper, thriving amongst the murmuring, meticulous, malevolent strings of anarchy, sculpted for sedition, for upheaval, for insurrection and annihilation, awaiting to see if he’d have to unleash the siege of cataclysm, turmoil, and mayhem upon one of his own. RE: a shiver through the house of glass - Illynx - 11-24-2013
RE: a shiver through the house of glass - Deimos - 11-26-2013 The Reaper watched as she advanced, spun her fickle, foolish web, slithered and slinked across the grounds in strength, diligence and unease – his lacerating, heartless stare narrowed, reveled and revealed naught of the sinister machinations clawing through his mind. Should he maul, maim, twist, distort, and puncture her frame, for denouncing his allegiance, for disregard, disdain, derision and scorn, when every lacquered, callous contempt of his coiled poise, of his sinister silence, had been for the land she stood upon? Should he offer death, demise, an undulating maelstrom of danger, of lethal vignettes and sinister machinations to arrive near her frame, send her quivering, quavering, into the ground? Should he ignore her altogether, remain aloof, impassive, reticent and unattainable, the marbled statue she’d screamed at in front of their brethren and patriots? Had she unleashed further turmoil and asp lies, he would have certainly unfolded the calamity of his desecration, of his malevolence and persecution, of his unholy apathy and villainous enmity; but her cautious forbearance, her residual anxiety, her stifled vocals and naught else, pulled him away from blackguard assailments, molten knives and diabolical cutlasses, the final, decrepit swing of a hot rapier. She offered his namesake and rank, nothing more, pushed the strange appearances, the stifling, hushed munitions back upon him, a beast never yearning for conversation. But somewhere, deep within his reticent being, he knew the demonstrations displayed at their gathering would somehow clamber and rise again, become another shrieking, unholy din resonating into the core of all their icy foundations, and he never yearned for their followers, for their soldiers, menders, and scholars, to see the disjuncture between leaders. It was foolish, inane and ridiculous to feud amongst each other when there were so many others to devastate and massacre, when annihilations breathed down sections of their glacial caverns. He was not one to bicker, to quarrel, because there had never been reasons to; understandings were to be sculpted, molded and composed. Unfortunately, it appeared as though he would have begin the monstrous whittling. “I have bled for this land.” Death and demise paused, sorted out the fathoms and denizens he wished to warrant. The gilded creature wouldn’t like it regardless, with all of her love and benedictions comprised and composed for a snake sister, but if she questioned his loyalty, his adherence and faithfulness for a world he’d helped to sculpt, she was a far number creature than he took her for. To doubt him, to suspect he’d pierced and stolen a crown, wrested a throne away from serpent coils, to believe he labored over this kingdom to see it falter; she’d remain a silly, inept fool. Would she scream, screech and howl again, drive her venom and vices back into the chilling kingdom, or understand the simplicity of his course? The cold aperture of his mouth wielded its siege once more, and then roamed back into the rims and edges of hushed barbarity. “Not for a fallen Empress.” Psyche had thrown it all away, and left Ulrik and himself to pick up the discarded fragments, hastened into self-pity and humiliation – was that what she remembered from her once emboldened, once powerful, once deceitful, proud leader? RE: a shiver through the house of glass - Illynx - 11-29-2013
RE: a shiver through the house of glass - Deimos - 11-30-2013 Banshee sirens and maelstrom shrieks, turbulent torrents and screeching tirades bolstered and ignited; he immediately regretted his attempt at conversation. The golden femme became an inferno, triggered and kindled by malice, by menace, by a devotion and dedication that not many shared. She seemed intent upon dragging him into her inept corridors, where asp toxins, foolish inclinations, specious desires and ignorant claims rose, bursting, impudent, impulsive volcanoes, spewing ash and vitriol, but he paid no inclination to follow. No one had the power, the prowess, the ferocity or might to sway him into their emotions, into their sympathies, for he was mostly without either, he drank in apathy, enmity, and animosity – and her stories, her myths, her beliefs and creeds didn’t manage to slash or melt his frozen, nefarious heart. The opposite occurred and he altered into formidable steel, unreachable, unattainable, tainted and drenched amongst infernal expositions, a foul, callous gleam of statuesque domination. His features failed to flicker from their reticent haze, impassive, stoic, unmoved, unaffected, unconcerned by each layered fire flung upon his flesh, meant to scorch, meant to sin, meant to sear. Her embers only met unholy recherché, scintillating nonchalance, ravenous, imperious annihilation, poised to simmer and seethe in the unwinding bedlam of her distorted carnage. You feel no love for her? The rasp, the grate, the abrupt candor of his damnation slinked through feral, indignant lips, puncturing, lacerating, piercing and slashing. “No.” Very few had ever claimed his devotion, his benedictions, his convictions, and the former Lady never managed to acquire a snippet of his blackened sentiments; he’d wielded his sword at her demands, at her calls, at her requests, but never kneeled before her daggers, kissed her rings, admired her throne. Was one supposed to cherish their leader, hold their hands through every crisis, reward them for their efforts when it was the herd, the cadre, the brethren and patriots that deserved the chords of glory? “You cannot force others to feel the same.” Whether Psyche had inspired others was to her own credit and merit, but to beat the notion into oblivion against his ears wouldn’t justify a swing to her side, and he stood, resolute, adamant, determined, to not comply with the howling woman. The more she berated, the less interested he became. Even as she spun her tale, the Reaper felt no proclivity to stay, listen, enticed or allured by her boiling rancor and derision. He didn’t treat her to his own narrative, nor care to delve further into all the chaotic frames of her prior lifestyle or childhood, and nearly scoffed when she raised Psyche back onto some viper pedestal, ignoring and forgoing Mauja’s involvement. Psyche had not given him purpose, he’d managed to find, discover and unravel the armaments, the sieges, the bloodshed, and munitions, satanic reveries, heathenous raptures, upon his own well before wandering into Helovia. By the time she’d finished, he’d ventured into ignoring her altogether, formulating Machiavellian machinations through his hedonistic skull. All the accusations, all the allegations, assertions, and incriminations thrown at his marbled state fell to the ground, withered and decayed, incapable of scarring a beast well aware of how the world had unfolded before his eyes. Her poison, her fangs, her bane were ineffectual dregs of toxins, fermenting and brewing into the hollowed void. All her fabrications, all her deceptions, fell upon a colossus of composure, of control. His mouth parted again, justifying the archaic reticence of his insurrection. “I have demanded nothing from you. Do not feed your venom with more lies.” The monster paused momentarily, fixated death into his savage lungs, into his brutal breath, until the unholy barbarity of his vocals strung between the two of them, sharp, caustic. “I followed her commands, I did my duties. Perhaps it is your mind that is narrowed.” He had no reason to defend his actions, for he’d accomplished no moral sin, no iniquity upon the viper-woman. Illynx, however, seemed intent on clambering upon the same venue over and over again, marching him down upon gallows and stringing him up by a taut noose, but he refused to play into her game, into her specious guile and vacuous schemes. Deimos declined, spurned, and dismissed the opportunity to waste the hours away speaking to a soul bent on ignorance and hand-spun disdain, to a harpy, to a fool insisting loyalty and devotion for a being already gone. He uttered one more cold, chilling reverberation, death and demise finished with the endless shrieks, wails and stupidity. “Concentrate on your own flaws.” Then he turned away from the gilded blade, sinuously stepping, slinking, slithering, ceasing to bend into the unreasonable terms of her dominating melancholy, longing, yearning, for the shadows to claim his taciturn flesh once more. |