[BASIN] Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine. [COMPLETE Deimos, any] - 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: [BASIN] Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine. [COMPLETE Deimos, any] (/showthread.php?tid=3779) |
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Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine. [COMPLETE Deimos, any] - Larkspur - 12-10-2012
Image Credits RE: Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine. [Deimos, any] - Deimos - 12-10-2012 His strength had been sown into the ground, drenched in pernicious, acrimonious decadence, rising calamity, impending, threatening catastrophe, and the wake of its heinous doldrums seethed only the most quiet, hushed enamel, positioned to silently entreat the world with its callous indifference. The radiance, the reverie, of his cool cataclysm endeavored the hum of his allure, and he became the stalking distortion of the Threshold again, contorting and cavorting amidst the blooms of vernal tributes, ruining them with the archaic immorality of his ravenous fire. Devoured and consumed by the predation of his beguiling supremacy, possessed and poised, ravaging the wholesome entities of friction and ethereality, the crisp, forlorn touch of the hedonistic, the infernal, the devil’s chord immersed in scintillating annihilation. He procured and absconded with the silent, sullen vigilance of his primordial treachery, aloft and imperial, overwhelming and irresistible, the compelling artifice of satanic debauchery. He was domination, sovereignty and supremacy, enamored and layered with the eternal carnage of unholy strife, locked in the statuesque recherché of his reeling, smoldering detachment. Puissance and influence, power and corruption, fueled and incensed in the wicked candor of a rapier’s brevity, sliding amongst the runes of ruins, the catacombs of enigmas, taking, ripping, ensnaring, and devastating. Designed for the art of battle, the regality of the siege, the assault, the strafe against sedition, he searched the lines of the Threshold with the same toiling diligence and resolve, plucking the forceful, the tenacious, from the seams of wayfaring, wandering vindictiveness, prompting them with a diabolical, fiendish purpose; solidarity of heathens and infidels. Deimos, terror and horror carved into a maelstrom of pewter and argent, stroked the very fibers of the gates, forced its passages to awaken, and rippled against the torrent of verdant splendor. His ruthless gaze tore against the leaves, the boughs, the timber, and the glades, rendered the frigid, glacial prosperity of winter all over again with one rebellious glance, with one mutinous stare. The coiled roll of muscles, conformed to control, armed with taut, crisp movements, sinuously demolished the virtues of the region, coating their hopeful threads and strings with the riotous din, tumult, of demolition, lethality, mortality. But as he journeyed, he travailed against the brooding fixtures until his emotionless features cast their wicked, maligned glare upon another; horned, mare, cerulean in the pines, eyes gilded, cage weakened, infirmed, adrift in the sea of forest and imprudence. He almost walked by her altogether, eager to ignore and continue onward, detached from the earth and its innocence, but the flicker, the glimmer, of her devilish alteration ceased his movement, granted him momentary pause. Despite her obvious skeletal feebleness - was there something beneath her surface, rough and rancorous, bleeding convictions, rendering an aspiring creed? The intrigue is there, muffled but still apparent, and he chiseled away at the contours of his voice, grating, harsh, deep, resonating against the copse, as stiff and unyielding as his frame, no greetings, no salutations. “Do you have a purpose?” And is it the same as ours? RE: Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine. [Deimos, any] - Larkspur - 12-10-2012
RE: Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine. [Deimos, any] - Deimos - 12-11-2012 Drawn acrimony, sketched brutality, and rendered savagery sculpted the terrain with his scrupulous demands; the acrimonious haze, the vicious, violent muddling of twisted disasters, defiant and seditious, varnished in the heinous glow, the ravenous splendor of fiendish predilection. Death and destruction, distortion and calamity, the seething roll of firm, stiff, unyielding puissance, drifting along the intangible eaves of brooding, arcane acrimony, animosity conformed to his flesh, to his blood, to the hushed tunes of his detached contempt. He watched her, the lacerating, indifferent stare glossing over the rigor of her ferocity, of her barbarity shelled and shackled in the whittled tombs of that blue creature. The chiseled arrogance of his ruthless candor remained, he was still and silent, untouched by her malice, by the menace stoked and flamed, by the turbulence quelling and fanning amongst the ire of the locked pathways. He noted her audacity, the bold fierceness embroiled in the chambers of her heart and mind, the gilded, tawny eyes that locked glares with his baleful, wicked intrigue, and pondered what other strengths lay hidden within her frame. They needed that resilience, that mettle, gathering, mining, collecting and assembling suitable candidates for illustrious campaigns, for drenched pursuits of the heathen, of the unholy, of the immoral; willing bodies aching for slaughter, yearning for annihilation, partaking in the foils of licentious creeds, joining in the rapture of destruction. Could she fight? Could she instigate? Could she repel and defend? Could she damn and condemn, just like they, in the shades, veils, and mantles of their heinous atrocities, the boiling, brewing maelstroms that pervaded their lungs, that contorted their whims, that controlled their actions and motives? Where did her pursuits lead, and could they ultimately be useful to their blighted reign, to the sovereignty rippling from a hallowed, hollowed valley? And what did she hate more, what did she loathe, detest, abhor? Weakness, loss, incapacity? He didn’t change before her, retaining the resolute architecture of his carved wake, unreachable, unmoving, unattainable, untouchable, forever unaltered by the caprices of futile beasts and heathens; too lacquered in the same varnish and enamel. The cold, cool reverie of his voice uttered more nefarious, noxious syllables, tarnishing the air with the chilling resonance, the dominion, the annihilation, the unsung violence sibilating across the air, choking, strangling, ruining benedictions and breaking aspirations. “It may be alike to ours.” RE: Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine. [Deimos, any] - Larkspur - 12-12-2012
RE: Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine. [Deimos, any] - Deimos - 12-15-2012 Intimidation was worn in abundant, copious amounts, twisting with his hedonistic reticence, contorting and cavorting with the squall of his cold fervor, ensnaring the warmth of the lands until the benevolence of spring was lost, discarded, ruined. The analytical quandaries of his membrane reeled, decadence enshrined in the callous, smooth course of destruction, where the earth pined for seraphic virtues and he lacerated, ripped, clawed, the might of its fallen, shaking, quivering pleas. Was she eager for destruction, devastation, to unravel the chords of the begging, yearning, longing souls, undermining, unhinging, sinking the sentiments and values of the pitiless, the weak, the feeble? Did she want to watch the world burn around her, crumble into ashes, consumed and ravaged? Or was she another newcomer lost in the squabble and rancor of dispassionate upheaval, left to simmer in the bitter catastrophes of yesteryear? Unchanging in his ravenous appeal for obliteration, the cool, ruthless gaze of his vicious haze remained sequestered upon the mare, witness again to ferocity and audacity layered in the restraint of her movements, of her motions. He was a master of control, of supremacy over the lacquer of his form, subtle, taut turns that invoked calamity, that incensed barbarity, and to find another amongst the quorum of impulsive, impetuous fools would be a welcome change. But her statement – no, he didn’t question her usefulness (the wicked always found a purpose for their brethren), but merely her regard, the aspirations beheld, if she was lacquered in the same licentious enamel as they. The seething, puncturing stare watched her all the more, but couldn’t find any reeling effusion of virtue tangled in the midst of her savagery, any distinct hue of radiant divinity, and allowed the moment to pass unhindered, unfettered, disregarded for the ruthless shards of his quietude, the single word uttered like a fleeting downfall. “Unnecessary.” He registered her cautious, heedful obscurities - persistence in wariness was a wise decision while flickering in the midst of his lethal candor - he devoured so many that followed the beguiling, alluring shade of his heathen design, his slaughtering, executioner elegance; devil drawn near, singing in her ear. Minatory enticement dressed in Tartarean guile, fleshed and fueled for the chilling bite of shadow and snares. Hell laced his throat and stoked the condemnation of his resonance, prospered the piercing distortions of ravenous predilection, leading her to the corridors of corruption. “Follow.” |