| |||
[PRIVATE] You have to walk through time. A clock isn't time; it's just numbers and springs.
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
12-22-2014, 12:21 AM
12-22-2014, 08:25 AM
Fire - it licked and scorched, fueled and torched, kindled and keened behind his eyes while he slept, brought him dreams and reverberations of a world tethered to his lineage, to his father encased in brimstone and embers, coals and ash. It funneled and churned, boiled and seethed, and all he could see were infernos licking tendrils of darkness, neither assuaged nor soothed by the shadows, combining, conjoining, into a heathen’s maelstrom, a devil’s opus, a noxious, Tartarean splendor. He opened his gaze and thought his sire was in his presence, simmering and stoking in the darkness of the cavern, brilliant and blazing, luminescent and coiled, full of boldness, resolution, promise, so his heart frothed in one of those miniscule, hopeful gestures, beat frantically, chased a lingering, childhood ambition – and only awakened to silence, trenchant anarchy. No Ignatius, no Isilme, no toxic throes of Isilme calling him home, only the burn seeping and slithering down his spine, exploding in the infernal, nefarious ducts of his mind, carnivore amore slinking, reminding, beckoning in sweet, indulgent siren song. He hid his disappointment, his pain, his torment, his torture, in taut, rigid, unyielding, predatory fixtures, cold-blooded machinations rocking and ricocheting, struggling to ignore the bestial expanse flooding his senses, depriving him of anything, of everything, but the wild, savage tempest building and brewing through his body. Maybe it was betraying him, maybe it was sacrificing him back into the winds, back into the soil, taking and absconding the eldritch hymns and the unholy vows, the creeds and convictions, removing him from the inside out, layered and lacquered to devastation one more time. In vain, the Reaper struggled and floundered, pressed a step into the cavern floor and lurched when it coiled and struck like vicious, vehement cinders, leaned his skull against the cold arches of the anointed aperture and glanced over his kingdom – pondered if this was how he was to die, sinking between the gallows and the thirteen steps, devoured by a fire he couldn’t cease. There was no relief, no sanctum, no refuge in his comfortable havoc, in his settled decadence, and the Lord of winter shuddered, shackled and chained in an ancient combustion. It ached and haunted, it plunged and harpooned, and eventually he could do naught but respond to its pull, to its taunting, to its alluring, torturous enticements, a scythe turned to moth, a monster turned to lamb, flaming, blistering, and smoldering his way down rocky pathways and glacial tides. There was no relief, no moment of clarity, no singular stretch of junctures where he could cry out his endless queries, his enduring curiosity, his cold-blooded machinations, following ruin and destruction through the chaotic interludes. Perhaps Ignatius, maybe Stone, had come to claim their son, reminded him of their horrors, their trepidations, their love sheltered and secured beneath the cauldron of mayhem and brutality (they were taken, taken, taken before he had a chance to say goodbye; the only moment he missed from Isilme, when he didn’t return in time). Somehow, someway, he’d meandered and managed to bow his head against the sweltering waves and the flourishing current, beguiling his demonic ministrations, intoxicating the swoon, the fiery abyss cloaking his soul. What was one more step to the might of Cinnoru and the swirl of Poseidon? Sanctuary? A haven? A port in the ferocious storm? An end to a maddening pulse, a vile haze? But something else crooned in his ear, and he turned, twisted, tried to dash it away from his surroundings, drown it commanded, vanish it demanded, and all at once he lurched from his coaxed whims, from his spellbound tenacity, and hissed against the rise, the fall, of another controlling his existence. While he smoldered, while he burned, the beast shifted to face the barbaric storm dictating his death, uttered one more defiant tirade against the world, so the realm, so the behemoth, could remember the rebellious, subversive demon he tried to exploit. “No.” [Fine by me! But I'd also like to keep the thread moving along. ;D] Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.
12-24-2014, 07:44 PM
12-25-2014, 03:40 PM
The scouring, the grating, the clenching of his infernal heart sharpened and keened, grazed and punctured, an altar, a shrine, to residual embers and cinders, masters of nocturnal spoils and oils brought to a reverential nefariousness – he boiled and blistered beneath its monumental rite. It struck his lungs and burned his breath, entangled and embroiled his veins, suffocated and lanced his throat, sought coals beneath his lids and rotted every surface of his mind until all he saw was a bright, brilliant, crimson bull – a derisive ox, a scorning creature damning him, relinquishing him, condemning him into the seas, into the waves. Like a cretin of fire, like a lord of combustion, he seeped his vengeance, he stoked his violence, into the licentious beast’s frame, riddled his structure with the archaic whims of flames and ardency – launched and assaulted, sieged and triumphed over the traces of sinister bounty. Each inhale was a rasp, each movement, each step, a scorching torture, building and ricocheting across his membrane, amidst his body, as if he were clockwork misery and writhing wretchedness, and he nearly sank into temptation, towards the cool ocean, amidst the wild current; it could sweep him away, churn him into dust and bones, calm and alter the flow of terror, end everything. The Reaper would never be found beneath its raging mouth, disappeared into eldritch, monolith Neptune rituals, worshipped in the doldrums and dungeons for nothingness and demise, and for a moment the craving was too much, and he glanced towards the endless surf, remembered every sin committed, saw his brethren, his friends, his companions, his family buried in the entanglement of water and shoal. Give in, the world whispered around him, join us, crooned invisible mermaids and water nymphs, we’ll be together again, his phantom family offered, and he shut his eyes against their haunting, poignant cries, their enticing dreams – they bellowed, they screamed, they screeched, and when he opened his penetrating stare, pained, tormented, he fixated it only upon the bull. If he were to die today, he’d take another with him. Ruthless, bestial, ferocious even in the throngs of suffering; a carnivore cornered, a predator preyed upon, with a striking finality, with a puissant certainty, with a pernicious scheme and a cold-blooded concoction, Deimos pushed against the crippling knives and the searing tirades. The Siberian statue ignored the warnings, scorned the commands, maneuvered one step, choked back a gasp, a howl, a bellow from the entombment of his virile distortions and the slithering, crawling agony – began to infuse his malicious, relentless contortions. A grateful mutiny, released and liberated from his hollowed, hallowed devil spires, entangled and poisoned from the warrens of Lucifer lies and deadly fumes, conspired and rang from the vows of subversive, revolutionary scoundrels. Like a cretin, like a fiend, like a Mephistophelean figure, he thrust the rapier of his deleterious invocations towards the charging beast, ensuing, galvanizing, corroding with one last noxious deliverance – death, carving a seditious rapture, a heartless condemnation, a scythe’s barbaric crescendo. [Deimos stands his ground and sends death magic the bull's way. ;D] Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.
12-28-2014, 02:48 AM
12-29-2014, 01:07 PM
Devastation and ruin, contorted and coiled, manifested and maligned, reached a vicious, voracious peak; flames hastening demise, death, destruction, infernos breaking and searing through his veins, a bull crossing dunes promising his downfall, and the deadly Lord bestowing the same. In a ferocious conflagration, they were two sides of the same coin: gladiators swarming, scythes pressing, swords thrashing. He was too slow to twist away from the edges of the ox’s horns, the seething ripple of menace, of might, of malice, was too encased, locked him within his hollowed shell, and the severe cutlass slashed at his left shoulder. All he could feel was fire all over again, burning against his mind, swallowing his soul, ripping and tearing at his lungs until all he could do was savor the loss of his senses, break against the rippling tempest, the kindled inferno, and fall to his knees at its indignant power. Yet, even as he kneeled (not towards the Gods, not for immolation or sacrifice, but because it was all he could to hang on to the feeling of earth, of ground, beneath his ablaze limbs and curling agony), Deimos’ rigid stare (even that was aflame; fringed with red, with crimson, with stories and tales of his sire and the slaughter of his bold heart), trapped and ensnared the bovine. He watched, he observed, as his own onslaught punctured and pierced, as the droves of demonic lacings wove around the beasts’ shackles and layered depravity, damnation, corruption and chaos. An anarchic antipathy, a hostile acrimony, a virile essence of his potent concoctions and capabilities – the thinnest smirk sketched itself across his mouth before he laid his head against the warm shoal, felt the cool currents bubble and froth beneath his body, discerned the tide reach his body. Maybe it was a Pyrrhic victory, blistering his satisfaction with ultimate defeat, perhaps he’d be carried away to sea, a creature sunk into Poseidon’s clutches, driven to terror and terror driven into him. A sigh shuddered and crackled through his ashen breath, and for one more emboldened moment, he reached toward the small flame still left upon the beach, listless and lilting. Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.
01-02-2015, 02:04 AM
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
« Next Oldest | Next Newest »
|