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I'll Be A Better Man Today {Death} - Calstron - 07-03-2017
OOC: Obviously, this is using liquid time here. The idea is that this takes place after all the other threads with Cal in them (The birthing, the talk with Rex, the kids, probs one with Rae) have ended Heather is going to be posting @Erebos . He and Cal will post until Cal is dead. @Rexanna and @Raeden , please only post after Cal has died/posted his final post for the thread (Just to keep stuff simple). After this, anyone else who would like to post is, of course, very welcome to do so! <3 (ie, @Tembovu or etc) RE: I'll Be A Better Man Today {Death} - Erebos - 07-03-2017
On the days he didn’t run on anguish, he was fueled on hate. It was a conniving rage, incensed and brutal, corrupt and bleak, forged by the flames of his ineptitude, on his broken, failed promises, on his ability to overcome, to devastate, or to conquer. Bitter pieces of memory would fall into place as he hunted, as he scavenged, as he scorched the land, incensed and mercenary, blending into the shadows, a blade, a knife, a dagger aimed at hearts and souls. He’d recall beautiful, little Arwen and her brilliant, ivory tassels stained in blood, the towering Colossus standing before her, defiant, ready to fell another just for the sake of murder and condemnation, just because he could, and the sickening pulse of contempt flooding through his noble, princely mind, the Machiavellian twists and turns – then meeting him again, putting a wound on his side but nothing more, nothing else, nothing that made him bleed and bleed and bleed until there was naught left but his empty, useless carcass. He’d recall a intruder sliding through their frozen doorstep, blending into the surroundings as if he owned the world, pressing his nefarious whims towards Enna and her son, and then how he’d rushed at the stranger as he threatened, as he garnished, as he tried to toss a cutlass into his figure, and even then, naught happened. He remembered Ashamin, the monster in the shadow of the labyrinth, how he’d thought and believed he’d be able to conquer and destroy this unknown enemy, how the jaws had slunk over his frame and made him cower, made him fall, made him weak and pathetic and forced into regrets and disdain. Then, there’d been Enna again, nearly destroyed on the cave floor, battered, bruised, bloodied, left to die, left to fester, left to wither away in silence, and he’d vowed retribution in his rage, in his feral, savage, nefarious oaths. Even when she’d begged him not to, he’d looked and chased, stalked and hounded, became a shadow, a twisted, gnarled, wretched fiend, following a fellow monster – and hit only dead ends. So he’d come to be the useless little prince, the boy who stood for so many things – vengeance, revenge, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life, completely incapable of dispensing any of these measures. He often wondered what others saw when they glanced his way: some pathetic brat, some worthless imbecile, some scion who had all the potential in the world, but none of the means, none of the qualities, none of the ability to carry them out, a waste, an empty, lingering piece of irreverence falling apart at the seams. What good was he to anything, to anyone? What was the worth of his assurances? What was the value in his contracts, in his commitments? You will be better, his father had once said, and the boy had tried, he’d tried, but it all spiraled into pointlessness. So the anger came easily; fury rested right between his bones and his veins, bestial and audacious, bold and barbaric, pooling, festering, entangling amidst his indignation and derision, pulsing, pervading, stealing his breath, his soul, his essence, scorching, seething, swallowing, consuming in its vicious cycle. His movements were made on madness and distortion, his motions were made on uproar and disorder, and his thoughts were made on rebellion, insurrection, toxic, indulgent mayhem. He bristled, he fumed, he smoldered; a storm on the horizon, a fire stoked, an inferno threatening to rise towards the skies and block out the sun. He wanted to prove to the world that valor held merit, that his promises weren’t empty, that he was worth something; however small, however miniscule, however trifle. And, even though she didn’t crave it, even though she told him not to follow the cretin coiled within, he wanted her avenged. Him, came a hiss, came a growl, came a stroke of kitsune intellect, and the prince slowed, was left standing, staring, at the proclaimed demon, at the image Thranduil had once given him. He wasn’t bloody any longer, not poised and scarred from Enna’s attempts to defend herself, to fight back, but he knew, he knew it was him, that disgusting, pathetic being who’d maimed and torn and mutilated (he could see her now, flayed because she’d refused to give in, because she’d tried to live). It took every effort, every restraint, not to rush against the wind, not to lower his head and stab him where he stood, to not rip him apart like he’d done to her. Soon, Orsino laughed, an echo in his head, and Erebos agreed, almost chuckling too, as if the divine beings had finally granted him a worthy gift, and Enyo was in there somewhere too, clicking her beak, uncertain of where to go or what to be. But Erebos understood what he was supposed to do – and it was methodical, it was bewitching, it was alluring, a beckoning bellow to all the cold forbearance, to the chilling nonchalance of his father’s frozen features – except he twisted all his hatred, all his malice, all his enmity into a Cheshire grin, an impish delight, an air of mischief instead of alarm, before he carved the beast’s heart out of his chest. “Hello!” He called, like an amiable figure on the horizon – shrouded in belligerence, in rancor, in spite, in death and desecration, wandering closer along the lava’s reaches, the bubbling fire pits, the eerie, eldritch whims of hate and loathing. The General pretended not to see the tears, vivid, clear, on the stag’s face, pretended he hadn’t heard the scream echoing through the chambers, and pretended he wasn’t swallowed by the abhorrence searing through his veins. “What brings you here?” Erebos clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in @Calstron RE: I'll Be A Better Man Today {Death} - Calstron - 07-04-2017
@Erebos RE: I'll Be A Better Man Today {Death} - Erebos - 07-04-2017
Perhaps he knew – the way that some monsters foreshadowed their final days, understood their time had come, when they’d committed too many sins, taken too many lives. Maybe he’d prophesized the prince’s arrival, the stormy, tempestuous General who’d refused to bow, who’d refused to give in, who’d endured and endured for this small, significant moment. By chance, he might have even envisioned the acrimony behind the pretenses, the blistering, unfurling, unwinding fervency, the callousness, the armaments, the ravenous, pervading tokens of a predator’s feast, just waiting, waiting, waiting, born to patience and control. Even as the beast, the fiend, the demon spoke, Erebos maintained a careful composure, a roguish complexion, tried not to betray every thought, every feeling, every eager, ardent urge to plunge his sword directly into the infidel’s heart and end it all (or to push, to pulverize, to smash him into the lava pits, watch the embers bubble and foil over the edges of his skin, gone, vanished, washed away from any memory, no bones left to trace, no fragments left to sketch). Annihilations scorched every inhale, every exhale, every raw, undulating precision of power, brooding, brewing, a puissant disposition gathered right behind his eyes, and at first, he wanted to laugh at his opponent’s request. Who was this tyrant to ask for anything, when he’d already taken, already snagged, already ensnared, already broken another? The traces of a sneer folded over one corner of his mouth, and he turned away to look at the lights rasping at the walls, pushing the iniquity down, down, down, hastening it back into bedlam, into his lungs, into his mind, into his malice, where the rampant decadence could stay still, silent, for just this trifle instant – he could feel Orsino growling through the webs, through the Machiavellian veins, and the eldritch, audacious trappings nearly swallowed and consumed him there, in between glory, revenge, and impending, sinister terror. The boy pretended again – arched his brow, drew a masque across his features, acted as if it the whole farce was intriguing instead of toxic, was curious instead of chilling. “Truly?” He whispered at first, quiet, presiding like a concerned citizen, as his mother would’ve done, as she taught him to do (but resting there, like poison, like daggers, was the blood of his father, was the licentious, formidable power, was the temptation to simply end it all, nonchalant and vicious in the wake of his enemy’s last screams). Erebos was to be painted as Justice – but didn’t have her flair for the blindfold, for the scales, for the balance of right versus wrong; he already knew too much, he already craved feral renewal, nefarious outcries, and the longing, sweeping ache of vengeance. He was a meticulous carnivore beneath the gallant forefront, an immoral raptor, an indulgent pariah, but the moment that beast said the word Reaper he nearly flinched and broke apart, fumbled for his threads, for his garb, for his veils and shrouds and daggers. Did this cretin know who haunted his dreams, whose figure he craved, what he’d already lost? Did he see the scion beneath his father’s shadow, smiling, grinning, and laughing, before the terrorizing end? Had he seen his father pass that scintillating weapon towards his child, feral, fierce, cold-blooded violence in the hearts and minds of connected chasms (because he hadn’t, he hadn’t, and he’d never had any intention of following his sire’s footsteps – he just wanted Enna avenged, he just wanted heathens to pay, he just wanted retribution for all the lives slaughtered, condemned, and altered by this asinine brute)? Just run him through, came the echoing, ruthless hiss of his companion, and he almost took the plunge, almost lowered his head, almost aimed to harpoon his menacing sword into the monster’s wicked chest – but there had to be more, more, more, this couldn’t be the end, it couldn’t be so damn easy. For some strange, foolish, twisted notion, he wanted to give him the barest modicum of hope, so he could see it dashed away from his face the moment the prince proclaimed his judgment. “I doubt it could be so bad,” he winked and lied, foiled back into fox incantations and Cheshire whims, mercurial and turbulent under his layers – truly, disastrously wicked, condemned to a diabolical task he intended to savor. He could hear Orsino laughing within their chaotic bond, and it nearly made him chuckle too, echo across the grounds with such a vicious, dark sensation of glee – but instead, he swiveled his avaricious gaze solely on the harbinger of misery for so many lives, and waited for the ruthless end that had already begun. “Do tell.” Erebos clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in @Calstron RE: I'll Be A Better Man Today {Death} - Calstron - 07-06-2017 I am sorry....its like.....really long. -coughs-
OOC: Might do like an ending post after this one? Might not? We'll see how Erebos writes it I supposed. Then everyone else is welcome to join in. @Erebos RE: I'll Be A Better Man Today {Death} - Erebos - 07-09-2017
Here was hell, he surmised, through the coffins, the webs, the catacombs, the parchment of tales and stories of a heretic’s beginning and downfall. It came on devastation and unhinged, dissonant immorality, a licentious ensnaring of souls born to capability, but forced into something else entirely – forged into brutality, into calamity, into corruption – because of weakness or nature? He couldn’t tell – he’d known so many souls who had been enslaved to decadence, who had only known the squall, the tempest, the viciousness, and never turned into this harsh, unfurling, ravenous complexion, who lacked control, who drowned in the wake of their own misfortune, who’d fallen apart and been incapable of escaping it. The prince stood, frozen in place, a still, reticent statue, entirely grateful for the days of his strong father, the true Reaper who’d allowed his son liberation, deliverance, and freedom, who didn’t beckon him to death’s gates or yesteryear’s ferocity, and for the wisdom of his beloved mother, who taught him kindness and valor, who smiled and beckoned him to her side just to hear the silly remnants of his day. The youth had been entitled, lucky, fortunate to have been loved, cherished, and adored – the crumbling beast in front of him hadn’t been given the chance to feel a flicker of those emotions (then why didn’t you fight? Erebos wanted to ask, wanted to hiss, wanted to growl - why didn’t you try?). Was giving in the easiest way out? Would it have mattered if the fiend had fought back as a child? Had he done it simply to survive, and then knew naught else, condemned, ruined, and consigned to oblivion before his first year of life? Could he have disappeared, run, clambered and climbed his way from the savage, distorted world, or had it been too late? Erebos didn’t know whether to pity the monster in front of him, or turn his ruthless, bestial gaze upon him, chisel a reflection, fire upheaval into the flames, conjure every ounce of nefariousness back into the reaches of this seething, puncturing enamel. There was no one here to stop him. But there he was too, crawling amongst these pendulums where seraphs no longer existed and the empires threatened to flare into chaos, into bedlam, into infernos – enticed by minatory predilections, swallowed and devoured by the need for revenge. He was calm, a wicked wind stirring from Poseidon’s keep, he was composed, a brooding, brewing figure, drawn to the shadows, to his hate, to his wrath, to his fury. The General would’ve been completely, silently poised in his executioner elegance, in his Mephistophelean finery, in the wicked munitions gathered behind his eyes, had a familiar name not flickered past his ears. Then there was Rexanna, it echoed, it spun, across the cool, rancorous fringes of his cranium, and the enigmatic immorality twisted, contorted, and coiled back upon him, lingering down into the treacherous yearnings, the ferocious tidings, the seditious mayhem snagging over the gallant edges still remaining in his figure. He thought of the femme he’d known, the gilded mare who’d helped their icy lands prosper, whom he’d battled when he was a mere fledgling soldier, who’d tied herself to the Elephant King and left their wintry home – only to return after his father had perished. The boy had been so angry at her, because she’d left, because she’d fled, because…now he understood – she earned her freedom in the only way she could, for history had told her to vanish, to take what she could and think nothing of the consequences (and there’d been none to speak of – the Reaper had been saddened and told no one; faded away on the embankments of the lake). What about all the other palaces he’d destroyed? What about the people within – innocent, blameless? What had they done to deserve Calstron’s infamy and abhorrence? What about all the ruins left behind? What gave him the right to take and take and take, simply because he could? Erebos could feel his heart quicken, vicious and mauling, his breath losing its distinct nonchalance; he swallowed down the virulent, hostile indulgence, the desperate need to release his primordial fury, and then the fool spoke again, and the boy was forever lost inside the torment of another day, another moment- I even almost killed someone here, in these very caves. Everything else was hollowed, carved out, nothing afterwards. He didn’t hear the bittersweet end to his tale, where he’d found love and devotion and all these other things he didn’t deserve (how many had he taken from that, how many had he destroyed who’d never even had a chance for happiness and contentment?). He didn’t hear anything about understanding, because the prince wouldn’t, couldn’t, had already been bottled up with enough predacious ferocity to make another break apart. The beast forced his eyes to look upon this monster, this foul, disgusting, vile piece of filth, and he hoped the other beast saw his finality, his demise, there, riddled in the bits of sea slate and machinations, the predacious, sinister slide of his wolfish movements, haunting, promising only wickedness and naught more. He was a blade, a rapier, a cutlass, ready to run him through. Orsino and Enyo only stood back, amidst the shadows, not necessary for the foretold retribution. He sank into oblivion and didn’t think twice about it, couldn’t hear Enna’s begging pleas for him to cease, couldn’t process anything else but the fervent, callous need to rip, rampage, and avenge (just her frame, bloodied, battered, too still, too silent, nearly encompassed by death). “Your story hasn’t changed my mind.” His vocals were eerily tranquil, eldritch, otherworldly, a cloaked, choked infusion of fellow, heinous beings, ravenous and sinister, crossing over a line, a point of no return. The warrior pressed closer and closer still, until they seemed chest to chest, and he’d be able to watch everything unravel and fall apart, relish in the intoxicating, vicious end to a pathetic menace. “I’ve been hunting you for some time,” and here a smirk appeared at the implied layers of his persistence, right at the corner of his mouth, and he was neither his father nor his mother in that moment – a heathen all his own – content to witness the impending destruction. He breathed again, took in the toxins and smoldered, seethed, fumed, bristled, awakened and on fire; and the invocations, the enchantments, within his soul simmered to the forefront, beating a derisive, bloody crusade through his veins. They slid towards the foul beast, potent and infuriating, and while he spoke, they attempted to sketch themselves in lines and scars, in pain and torrent, in brutal, remorseless, fierce cycles; a mirror of Enna’s blemishes and lacerations, dark, malicious intentions cutting, sliding, gliding through flesh and bone. “I’m glad you remember my friend in the caves.” He relished in the crescendo, in the rapid twists and turns of his magic, lingered there, in the wild springs of carnage and contempt, feeding into the frenzy of hate, of malice, of vindictive, infernal creeds. At least this was one oath, one promise, one proclamation he could finally keep. The son of the Reaper’s voice lowered to a whisper, merciless and iniquitous, a step away from slaughter. “This is for her.” I will not grant you peace. I will not grant you mercy. The violent, seething ends of his fury pulsed and pervaded the makeshift tomb, his eyes were pictures of fervent derision, his body an audacious, emboldened declaration of retaliation, contentment, and brutal, sadistic satisfaction. The dark, loathing forces gathered in his soul, in his sorcery, blended together in a sickening, invoked calamity, intending to strike, to hit, to devastate, to destroy, aiming directly for the monster’s heart – intending to murder what little bit of its essence prevailed. The devil’s hand pointed him down the right path, and he swung his scythe. Erebos clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in @Calstron RE: I'll Be A Better Man Today {Death} - Calstron - 07-11-2017 Calstron did not protest or squirm or cry. He did not beg, he did not flinch. He barked one breath of laughter as the darkness cut him. Yes, he thought. This is what I've always wanted. The darkness hit his heart, he fell, and the spark left his eyes. He looked to his reaper and spoke his final words. "Thank you." His family was free, Rexanna was free, they were all free now. (I know, I know, word count limit. But its the end and I didn't feel like writing a long one <3) RE: I'll Be A Better Man Today {Death} - Raeden - 07-11-2017 @Akriel |