[P] scar on the skin again - 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] scar on the skin again (/showthread.php?tid=8255) |
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scar on the skin again - Deimos - 06-17-2013 Bodies swayed to rhythm of nocturnal veils, sinuous, Stygian brambles, twilight escapades, inner turmoil and festering flaws; the visceral, feral, wild spirits dragged through their catacombs, shredded, destroyed, distraught. Hungry hearts torn, phantoms looming, the graceful melancholy, the besieged agony, the torturous, ambrosial savoring of cretins, devils, chimeras and hallucinations, evil in the stench, the rise, the fall of each drifting current, each idle tide. Sin’s carved moan, undying, relentless compositions of the blackened threads of virulent, belligerent circles, naked and exposed to the ruptured seams of eerie infidels. Intimate repose for the unholy, the ghosts, the wraiths, the clattering chains, the specters and demons rattled their bones, clenched their jaws, whispered the hallowed secrets of the corrupted, of the damned, of the labyrinthine dedication and degradation of demise. Woven incantations, heinous brews, intoxicating doldrums for the impulsive, inane and inept, burning, intertwining fingers grasping souls, worlds colliding into infernal feats of decadence, embroiled, simmering, smoldering anarchy. The immoral innards, the atrocious entrails, the cleverly subdued infatuations of mystery, of torment, of torture and horror, shed malice upon the argent oeuvre of the monster, the behemoth, the Grim, Tartarean beast. Absolved from the underworld, he entered the acrimonious tombs, swallowed the midnight gall, the strangling air, and smothered the frigid, chilling winds, the sorrow of desolate souls, with the plunge of his severe savagery. Hollowed, aching creatures starved for light, starved for dawn, starved for virtue and divinity were quickly strangled by the rancorous, ravenous devastation of the Reaper. He molded over crooked, gnarled boughs, carried noxious, nefarious secrets in the helm of his sword, in the mighty bones of his entangled iniquity, the cracked, wizened forests and copses, defeated by the nothing place of enigmatic, haunting allure. He felt the licentious void collapse around his form, the desolation crumble, the ruin linger, the listless, languid pieces mingling along, across, his arcane, reticent skeleton, called, lured, ensnared by the murmurs, the croons, the requiems and laments of his callous, merciless slaughter. With each movement, the empire left its dead behind his assailing footsteps, massacred, devoured, consumed, lacerating, choking, piercing the witching hour’s cool predilection. Precision and pernicious pursuits, aligned to the barbarity, the annihilating abyss, the wandering maze leaving immaculate corpses to wither, decay, and the vile, the irreverent, the sinful, the godless to triumph over their conquests. Bedlam’s favored son, the devil’s bestowed warrior, engraved and incised the portal of atrocities with the infamous kindling of his own despicable, villainous insurgency, layering and lacquering the chambers with brutal finality; quietus at the edge of his tongue, demise at the stroke of his touch. Swift motions embraced the stead of atrocities, fixated on the runes of his puissance, and conquered the remains of the earth before him. [For Huyana. <3] RE: scar on the skin again - Huyana - 06-24-2013
RE: scar on the skin again - Deimos - 06-24-2013 Taken from the hallowed reaches of Tartarus, the grasp of Ixion, the primitive, noxious haze of virulent animosity, penetrating agony and massacred depths of delusion, he presided amongst the bitter kingdom, reigned in rancor, shifted on his throne of diabolical ministrations and machinations. The Reaper coveted and consumed, fed upon the everlasting, eternal, unending, unceasing darkness, devoured and swallowed the remnants of latter days, of virtues, of hopes and dreams, of scattered remains built upon whimsies, fancies and reveries, captured and held the dying edges of all its tattered wings. He absconded the torturous, ceaseless, enigmatic amalgams, breathed invocations of iniquity and disaster, stroked the grace, the elegance, and the stratagems of a devil’s warrior, doomed and destroyed before inhaling their first breath. He swung his scythe into frozen eaves, watched as the tangled barbs of livelihoods, reverences and benedictions fell to their graves, tumbled into headstones, torn, distraught, and corrupted by the last few moments of their decadence; the master of malice, the sovereignty of sinister laments, the monarch of calamity, crowned king of annihilation as he witnessed the world rot beneath his hooves, sink along his motions, drift into upheaval, bedlam, anarchy as he stretched across its vast plains. Callous devastation, heartless ruin lingering, listless, languid catastrophes brought on by mere contemptible insurgency, to conquer, to claim, to usher violence, irreverence, revolution heralded by incised, engraved, unholy disquiet. He sculpted iniquity from silence, crooned abomination in the hushed void, in the nefarious calm, in the anxious, uneasy composure of sin and licentiousness, smothered discordance with the sweep of his rapier barbarity. The beast harnessed every moment of annihilation, the harpooning lance, the behemoth abhorrence, the demonic depravity confessed from predacious lips, the feral, woven fervency of stoic scheming. An ethereal ruin, fastidious forbidding, infernal intimidation caught in the motion of his scintillating immorality, of his heathen brushstrokes and arched detachment, the woven shears of his noxious blade, slinking, swindling, sliding amongst the unholy possessions of his fierce, rampant domination. The ghostly edges of blue appeared, overwhelmed, stirred, roused the potent puissance, the pernicious predilection, and he ceased all motion, converted to the statue again, the marble surface, the imperious recherché and immobile reserve locking lithe, limber limbs. The rain had come once more, showering her finery in the unforgiving reel of collapse and antagonism, blending into carnage, into enigmas, into debauchery and detachment, and his features eroded to arch a brow, carnivore calculations heralded in the blunt terror of his eldritch wake. Light, airy, serene and gentle, whispering his name across the void, the abyss, the chasm of afflictions, tragedies and violence, harboring it like a song, like a serenade – why? Why was she amongst these horrendous parlors, awakened and alive in the breadth of mayhem? Why did she wander the halls of augured requiems, drenched in the delusions of its eerie pinnacles, its clawing, grasping thresholds, its perilous mass of mania and desecration? Why did she traverse the bowels, the innards, the entrails of Hell – hoping to wash away its plight, its debauchery, its contempt and corruption? Or did she do this to lure his curiosity, to ensnare him fully into the gulf of her hold, her grip, her vivid croons and coquette dances? Where was the light she’d promised to show him, ever fleeting, ever presiding, ever destroying the barbs he pulsed and pervaded? Where were her armaments, her sieges: the soundless affections of a virtuous, patient soul, the merciful compassion swindled and starved, as if they’d never seen, never touched, never tasted hell? He leaned in, closer, a soft, slow, murmur away, crouched in the veil of darkness, raptorial, wolfish, controlled. His breath, snaking, scintillating vapor, coiled over her forelock, watched it billow in the uneasy shrouds of rattling, baleful torments, the shrieks and dirges of all the living becoming deceased. The devastating stare, vivid and haunting, composed the duet of hidden, noxious secrets and desecrations, beat a demanding trace in the heart of his anarchy, in the sway of his apathy, in the opulence, in the grandeur, of his commanding brutality. Voice, intoned with savagery, with curiosity, with disdain and derision, ushered the query that stoked, incised, prompted and provoked his mind, sauntered across his sentiments as a bright, strange wind. “Why are you here?” RE: scar on the skin again - Huyana - 06-25-2013
RE: scar on the skin again - Deimos - 07-03-2013 The specters and wraiths unwound tied knots and strings, chained to fear, panic, desolation and despair, the haunting, wailing decibels of ancient, reticent paradigms, refused to be lifted from their coffins, from their tombs, from their catacombs, swarming in the deluge of darkness. Incapable of touching the other side, inefficacious of stretching their gnarled bones to virtues, to paragons, to divinity and the crushed, twisted expanse of beatific resolution, they rested and remained as bulbous cretins, as infernal fiends, as woebegone titans glorified to ash, to dust, to rubble and ruin. Heathen rapture frayed, decadent shells, tyrannical tides, rampant rivulets drinking, licking, relishing and relinquishing the embers, coals and entropy, the snarled animosity of a wicked ruse and muse, plunged, forgotten, from a guilty nation. The bittersweet cacophony, satanic symphony, hell and infernal bliss lacquered to marsh and wasteland, locked in the ruthless embrace of all its perilous deeds, screeching each wafting, dying sin. He glanced unto the murky world and swallowed Stygian threads, swarmed and consumed the bewitching ache of doldrums, condemnation, abhorrence and loathing, dragged into the depths of persecution, annihilation, disintegrating enamel. Would he be the same one day, scattered and torn, drenched in madness, in archaic, destroyed sinew, pulsing life only from his callous limbs? Would he drift ashore upon the eerie, heartless banks, begging for absolution when his pernicious power failed him? Would he stare upon the kingdom he burned and whisper for its deliverance? Would he aspire to merely move, instead of maul, devour and ravage? Would his power fail him, pernicious croons stolen by apocalyptic liberation, heart blown, muscles mauled, decaying, rotting, withering in place? Would he rest here, imploring, pleading, weak and defiled? When he fell out of bedlam’s favor, would terror become meaningless, would horror become nothing, would his flesh perish like his name? Would his unholy violence eventually meet its end, and he’d arrive here, a demon in another realm, just as haunted, just as tormented, just as tortured? It was a cool delusion, a trance unsung mayhem caressed and nurtured, and his vivid, puncturing stare swerved back to hers, to the light that she’d promised, to the grave that she’d dig for him, to the tombstone she’d erect in his place, and to all the words left unsaid in the surreptitious halls. The silent plea, the hushed demand, the muted command; Save me. But his throat curled something different from the rough granules of his voice, resisting igniting hearts and vulnerable apathies. The Reaper’s lips, often partaking in the closed walls of his vicious vehemence, of his inaudible, unattainable entity and essence, discarded one word to all of her follies and frivolities. “Unwise.” He found her foolish, wafting amongst the scattered carcasses, cadavers and corpses, where death bled into the scenery, encompassed every aperture, every dungeon, every mausoleum until their lifeless treaties hung as tapestries and siren calls of indifference, coaxing the wayward divinities into the sinister, the nefarious, the barbaric. He was here because the bog was a second home, undying loyalty to the mysterious, to the powerful and future decrepit, to the arched triumphs of clattering fortitudes and destined, augured, foretold turbulence. But she, with her dew, her showers, her stained, blemished virtues, should have had no reason to partake in the tempestuous creed of iniquities, the brutality of violence. Did she wander amongst these runes to find depravity, corruption and licentiousness? Did she want to heal their laments, to cure their immorality, to delve into the crooked souls? Or did she covet immoral deeds, did she wish for a more bitter life than the frail one she’d already found, encountered and led? Did she long and yearn for the rancorous caresses, the acrimonious edges of the soul-sucking bog? And would he be upset if she withered and decayed before his eyes, changed and distorted, no longer nymph, no longer rain, but a storm, wild and damned, condemned and brutal, drowning in the chaos of her abysmal designs? Why do you stand near me? Some portions of him remained perplexed, deluded and confused, entranced by the ruminations of a golden spark dimming, and another sentiment rolled, growled, brewed deep within his dissolute existence, crackled in his chest, whispered frustration and agony over the twist and falls of the blue belle. Closer, as near as temptation, enticement and allure wrought, he presided over her features, her upturned face, in a towering conjecture, blackguard demon sinned and sinned against, brushing and caressing the armaments of his brutality, like a shield, like a shade, like a mantle, the only creature allowed to annihilate. Huyana shuddered, a light shiver and quiver in the intoxicating, ink nocturne, and he plucked the ravenous chords of his predilection, lowered his mouth for the smallest fraction of moments – perhaps she would not feel it at all, believe it another ghost trickling, gliding over her skin – to caress, to touch, to enrapture, steal and capture, the dove tails of her sable forelock. Another beguiling fraction and friction, a mere instance of tracing diabolical strings, drew along, across, the arch of her neck, kindled reassurance through quiet, unearthly silence. His answer to her previous query only trickled into the deep resonance of devilry, of necromancy, when he’s drifted his countenance away from hers, uncoiling the layers of his death requiems as he controlled atrocious impulses again. “To torment and haunt again.” |