.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
11-02-2013, 01:51 PM
Death roamed with no particular design, macabre machinations for once unclear, unfocused, not fettered, aligned or chained to deplorable acts or heinous abominations. Under the crisp, monstrous multitude, he simply moved, a bewitching, alluring, scintillating essence of demise, the quiet, haunting, poignant and evocative scope of quietus, of the sliding, intertwining ardency of feral ferocity. Consuming, swallowing and devouring harpsichord sentiments and raptures, destroying the inept predilections of vacuous souls, feverishly, rapaciously coveting the earth with each sinful step, each sinuous, iniquitous stride. Under the guise of wandering he settled into avaricious plumes and covert fortifications, pressing agony into soil, composing anguish into loam, ravaging and pillaging the horrifying voids of punctured, lacerated antipathies, presenting animosity, calamity, destruction in the vicious, vile, virulent haze. A pernicious, potent hum and hymn amongst the silence deliberations, the coiled calculations, the desecrated, renounced, blistered fiends, he was the triumphant, the sullied, the condemned and crowned, master of Mephistopheles’ malicious maelstroms, Satan’s scathing strokes. Now Lord, now King, now sovereign of a barbaric land that he’d restore, renew, sculpt and mold into vivid brutality, into devouring tides and molten grasps, nefarious culminations and sinister horrors, where the world would watch, wait, and listen for the wicked doldrums, for the seething blend, of their daggers, of their swords, of their armor, clashing into their corpses.
Distracted from his portended onslaughts and stitched terrors, the familiar scent of his daughter flourished across the wake of the ocean, and his following footsteps found her in the bounty of her mother’s element, cast into waves and gulls. Like a lamb of the sea, she sang into its fathoms and depths, and he nearly laughed at his overwhelming fortune; power, legacy and devotion sticking to his ribs, to his lungs, to the beating, villainous columns of his heart. For what reason had he been granted such gifts? Loyalty to crown, to realm, to kingdom and empire, or the outstretched grasp of hell, bound to its innards and entrails, rewarded in his reticence by the opulence of creed, possessions and treasures? No matter the circumstances of his bestowals, he conspired to never be rid of their traces, their tresses, their gilded spires and embraces, protecting, guarding, shielding and surveying with every venomous swing of his rapier, with every barbaric hum of his cutlass.
He thought to watch her from afar, permit the composure, the rapture, of a child beneath the open arms of the air, revel in innocence, conspire and contort in the alms of the wilderness. His offspring should be allowed to dream of grandeur without the brutal armaments casting contemptuous shades over their eyes, their hearts, their hopes, should be permitted to waltz and beckon the power of their decadence when they saw fit. A ghost of a smile wandered over his lips, boyish, awkward, ill fitting and rarely used, but in her company, it seemingly appeared with whim, without stone, without reticence and loathing. His bestial form touched upon rock, leaned into the sturdy figure of a boulder, a wall, a sanctuary, refusing to fade beneath the deleterious length of his contact and convergence. The Reaper uttered one grate of his voice, an idle, transient, fleeting reverberation to kindle his daughter’s attention, a belle amongst beasts, bestowing his appearance, asking naught more. “Loth.”
