[O] drove a spear into its side - 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: [O] drove a spear into its side (/showthread.php?tid=12426) |
||
drove a spear into its side - Deimos - 02-02-2014 Shrouded in silence, in decadence, drenched in sin, in licentiousness, cloaked in daggers and furtive rings around a Reaper’s throat, he sought to swing his scythe into beating beings. But there was nothing, naught but the tangle of labyrinths and mysteries, enigmas, quandaries, and unending queries, and he couldn’t bloody, wreck, ravage and ruin vessels without corporeal forms, set to haunt, implore, weaken and devastate the calamity they’d started. He, like so many of his other savage brethren, were forced to acrimonious waiting, zealous, fervent tides ebbing and flowing for the bitter taste, the poignant shards and gravel of a ferocious tumble into the waves, into the sea, into the rubble and ruin over their chaotic sway. The monster harbored violence, an old friend, a constant companion, harpooned it over the legacies of maelstroms and mayhem, followed it to the ends of the serpentine earth, watched and witnessed as his destruction lent its merciless power, and now, he was without its sway. Demise was an inefficient march, or so the GildedBlade had claimed before she too was swallowed into the rancorous depths of the unknown, and though his sword could still plunge into hearts, into lungs, into sinew and flesh, rip it apart with the savage pervasion of lifetimes lost and swindled, the soulless, the heartless, wouldn’t hesitate to bind him into pestilence either. So he was ragged and split between duties; to brutality, to disorder, turbulence and mayhem, the brilliant, acidic taste of venom and ichor spread over sands and dunes, or searching out his patriots, ensuring their safety while they coasted amongst unknown, enigmatic quarters. To choose the latter was a disappointing venture down pathways he’d rather not trod upon, because his strength existed in the essence of satanic, infidel composition, the molding of his Lucifer finery in the depths of death and discord, strangling the inept, burying the foolish, reaping over the wiles of the inefficient. What he wouldn’t give to call to his flock, watch them rise over the alms and pedestals of chaos, burn bridges, commit mutiny, spread the seditious splendor of their unholy reverie and rapture. But he couldn’t, and that only infuriated the beacon of heresy even more. Instead of clambering into the wastelands and rupturing the inklings of upheaval, he scalded and scorched the innards of the sanctuary, riddling and contorting them with the displeasure of his reticence. An impassive, moving brutality, a slinking, sinuous bounty of ferocity brimming and brewing beneath the surface of nonchalance, sinking further into the scales of turmoil and cataclysm; waiting for the appropriate moment to lend his cruelty into the factions of this rancorous siege. Seeking, searching, yearning to obtain a notion, a way, to combat the forces lurking beyond their world, to reach towards their icicle kingdom again, spread supremacy and sovereignty over and over until the drums of war beat upon thickened skulls and announced their undaunted domination. Deimos maneuvered amid the glow of the unsung grove and grotto, a silver, steely fortress of augured maelstroms and foreshadowed bedlam, wilting the hours away until the earth was conquered and enslaved beneath his hooves; daggers to the throat of the virtuous. Sinister and serpentine, marked, etched and designed by Tartarean fortitude, and wholly inept at delivering the merciless machinations to those who deserved it the most. [Open to any~ Info on W.A.R. would also be wonderful. :D] RE: drove a spear into its side - Circuta - 02-05-2014
RE: drove a spear into its side - Deimos - 02-08-2014 The Reaper didn’t count his losses, the pitfalls or the pendulums. Instead, he waited, sowed seeds of sedition: slashed, scraped, let the molten, decaying air rasp and curl amidst his lungs. Days of iniquity slipped and passed in deplorable corruption, remaining a quiet pinnacle of perilous clarity, muted, taciturn bearings trapped and twisted in the serrated pariah’s annihilating bones, sinking and simmering within raptorial predilection; carnivore rapture. Through the fatal insurrection and revolution, he sought the tremulous, turbulent desires of a menacing opus, the ringing, the toiling, the telling, writhing, wrathful animosity clinging to eaves and burning, scalding lacerations unwinding along macabre chords. Meticulous, hot friction, scathing and sliding amidst the infernal indignation, the outstretched arms of heathens, of a poet’s savage, nefarious prose written in iambic, war scales, heightening violence and unraveled splendor, the savage harpoon, the bestial havoc, the strife of damned knives. Silken, smooth predator caught and snared in the ferocious blend of hollowed, heinous veils and deplorable boughs, lurking, waiting, for that reverie, that clamor, of deliverance – to sink the deadly elegance of his cutlass into alms and arms, to taste, devour, consume and feast upon the labors of ferocity coiling in his veins, wild, enticing temptation and anticipation. Monstrous divinations and yearnings, heartless whims tied to his sumptuous, seething grasp: darkness conquering darkness, evil piercing wickedness, contempt and loathing conspiring against malice and malevolence. The world couldn’t nurture its own onslaughts without terror, horror, and devastation rearing its ruthless head, its Stygian skull, treachery in the midst of its forgotten, Tartarean sculptures. Satan’s eternally damned, possessive, pulsing, beating, Lucifer’s majestic creation, Mephistopheles’ ancient, archaic, arcane design of severity and acerbic, mordant embraces, trebles of unsung violence. Villainy and pestilence, nettled and forbidding, sinister and ominous, wrought iron and fortitude from a callous, distorted being, made and chiseled fragments of stone into living, breathing vehemence, and now it threatened to turn against its creator; taste the ichor of acrimony from the brutal allure of its predacious oeuvre. Death desired entropy until kingdoms collapsed at his feet, frozen in fury, lapsed over in glacial, tenacious winter, broken and crumbled by the empty, vacant nonchalance of his depravity. But how? Another approached, and the swing of his cranium, the fiendish, forsaken reel of cold-blooded, acrimonious brushstrokes followed hymns of maelstroms, caught the glow of desecration mottled along lips and spider web incantations, watched the woman whom invited the devil to her house. If it were some other beast, combing the laurels, the diamonds, the moss and threads, he may have spliced into enmity, bent into primordial hazards and swung the noose of gallows along their throats, listened to the wind whistle through their nares, witnessed one more finale. However, the mare had offered them far more than the rest of the earth (and who could blame the wretches; when their horns offered execution and slaughter, rabbits chased by wolves, too deeply consumed by the infernal wakes of debauchery. He wouldn’t have told them either, gratified to leave their forms to the merciless caprices of the earth, or offer the last plunge into their hearts himself.), and he was forced, bound, to the intrigues and intricacies of generosity. He should have been grateful, and the notion tore against his soul, because an eldritch titan was not taught appreciation (mayhem, bedlam, discord), but he inclined his head into a lowering gesture all the same, proffering the small nuances of his shambled convictions. “Thank you.” Pondering frayed at the edges of his sinister synapses, declared a pillaging, Machiavellian pursuit, down the length of his taut, minute motions, over the demolition and strife seized and possessed in the corridors of his sinful mind. Why would, beyond the burrows and furrows of her proclaimed righteousness, she grant them salvation when others would have been content to see them buried in their own armaments? Was there something more, a need, a necessity, for reaching out towards the atrocious, the animalistic, the cretins and infidels, extending olive branches along fathoms of serpents and ruin? What required a pernicious throng of puissant, antagonistic prowess? Did something twist in her meticulous avenues as well? Deimos had lived for too long, had sought too much anarchy to believe the world was full of charity and beneficence – there was more to these annals and entrails of life in shadow. His lips parted once more, indulgent, curious, inquisitive, lending his sinuous notions voice and beguiling ambition, but only to the necessities, the essentials. The Asylum itself, with derangement and lunacy embroidered across its title, could wait in the empty shackles of the cavern for further perusal and duplicity. “What do we face? Can we combat it?” And then, the swing of wretched presage, disquiet and unrest, upheaval slinking past oaths of desecration and decomposing obliteration, dangling and strangling wayward souls. “How may we provide aid?” A mutual exchange of demise, scythes, swords and daggers bending to the strict, rigid, indifference mottled across his insouciant brow. RE: drove a spear into its side - Eris_ - 03-02-2014
RE: drove a spear into its side - Deimos - 03-09-2014 Silence strung loose chords of shambled wares and apathetic gazes, enigmatic, hushed, listless, strangled and suffocated, tethered and trapped, amongst the imbalance of power and the unknown; the Reaper forced to remain in death’s infernal, listless paradigm, enticed into pragmatic schemes while the rest of the world waited for a sinuous, ferocious touch. Tainted, scorched, and blinded by the unsettled nuances of the blackened realm, of shadows he couldn’t bind or shades he couldn’t ravage, the heretic bounty, the nefarious outlook, stretched beyond the corridor and into the heartless labyrinths. What was left of the wretched world? How many were still chiseled into monstrosities? How many were still carved into canvases of demonic lunacy, spouting foam and spraying depravity? Were any of them his own comrades in arms, fighting, crawling, slithering their way across parlors and halls? If he were to plunge his knife, his sword, his cutlass, his rapier, into their hearts, into their lungs, into their chests, would they survive, or would he be just as diseased as them, crowned a deranged king, cackling on his icy dominion? Caught in the languid web, his sinister machinations, his severe ruminations, dragged their puncturing stare over to a newcomer, red witch, eldritch and cloaked, spouting and sprouting siren sonnets. He cast the wicked depths of his nonchalance, Machiavellian designs fixating, contorting, pondering over the fathoms of her power, if enchantments seared and scorched, if she brewed spells and potions, if her cauldron seized with fire, indulgence, and enmity, like his contempt, malice, and menace stirred violence, villainy and dominance. The Reaper delved into more of the obscure, unaware of the notion of her presence, of the reasons beyond her sorceress whims or Cheshire grins – he offered the modicum of respect back upon her flesh, a tip of his cranium, the deleterious scroll of his insouciant throne. A stone’s throw, a curt tone, an introduction of the heartless, of the corrupt and immoral. “Deimos, Lord of the Basin.” Words passed, twisting and distorting, of infidels creeping and crawling, of poison poured down gaping mouths, of infections and pestilence, cities waiting to be sieged in dust. Even acquaintances were shared along Circuta, and his eyes narrowed into reticent slits, calculations burning through the haze and maze. Warriors, spies, leaders and followers – we need everyone. - what war did they yearn for? The taste of the banshees along the ruins, against the sanctum, the afflicted clawing, rasping? Or was there something else lingering, an unseen, unspoken notion, eyes flickering back and forth, and he, the satanic sculpture, the Lucifer laureate, the demonic dream, suddenly a pawn in their pursuits? Was there a world, a kingdom, a realm to be gained beyond the whims of the insane, the intrepid, the resolute, bedding down with the maddening storms and the harsh gales? Because he could take, he could abscond, he could maim, rip, tear, bleed, and claim the avaricious, covetous chords for his herd, his prowess, his precision, his might, and his pernicious steel – but not without the right motivations, the right means to an end. If they wanted him, his patriots, his comrades, his warriors, his swords and shields, what awaited their triumph? Slashed throats, mauled enemies, bloated corpses? The appeal of decadence, raw and indulgent, savory and smooth, wicked and barbaric? He pieced together finality, irreverent distinction, plagued vocals, hostile and trenchant. “To what end?” |