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11-10-2013, 02:09 PM
He was a barbaric beast in the toils and coils of turbulent anarchy, a slaughtering, mauling machine, a brutal, severe sculpture and carving of calamity, and in front of his daughter, he seemed naught more than a paragon. The admiration, veneration, esteem and acclaim woven through her eyes hid all his vices, all his sins, all his licentious creeds and portended pursuits into a fine, laced, plaited edge of potency; power, not corruption, not damnation, not massacre or obliteration. Precision in pernicious assaults, in raw, consuming undulations, in vicious, heinous bombardments, didn’t echo or chime in the child’s mind, didn’t claim the fortitude, the boldness, the clamor of her candor – and so his smile remained, chiseled into marred features of stone and marble. His life was pulled and twisted into various forms: a kingdom, ruins and desecrations, his empire rising and others falling, crumbling and crumpling to their knees, but she, this tiny, delicate cherub, captivated and chained him far more than the art and malice of destruction. The Reaper would commit any action, any movement, any licentious, fiendish, diabolical machination for her, unfold and croon the mold of satanic reverie, capture and uncoil, beguile, allure, the infernal glory of Mephistopheles’ chains. She was made from death and rain, scalded and shaped by the hands of rivulets and maelstroms, augured for the might, the weight, of his dominion, of his supremacy, of worlds lost and forgotten, etched and engraved with promise, prowess, capability and faculty for the future, and she’d easily strung his devotion across her tiny, seraphic form. What would she become, with all these blossoms, all these petals, strung about her hair and air? A poet laureate of virtue and singsongs? A beautiful, archaic, willowy conjecture of benediction and supremacy, combing the laurels for her subjects, to establish her rule and reign? A bold seraph, igniting the brimming, brewing fervor of her father’s lineage, or a proud, composed raincloud like her mother, all rune and regret?
Like a luminescent cord of light, she traipsed over sand and dunes, and his careful, scrutinizing eyes followed each movement and motion of her effervescent actions. The monster nearly laughed at her delight, at her wonder and whimsy, but caught himself before the sound barbed his throat, and instead, focused upon the world she gazed upon. The ocean reminded him of many things; the endless, reticent design of its edges, how mass and power could erupt from a tiny stream, flood into the fathomless depths of enveloping, pervading derision, embrace sinking cities, capture the unassuming, the ignorant, the inept. Of a world beyond this one, a land Loth would never know, destroyed, dissolute, renounced and forgotten except by the few who belonged to its containments, of warm, moonlit tides and his mother following him across the shore, of a burning, wholesome sire who ignited the world. Neither Huyana or himself could ever show her the breathtaking sovereignty of a kingdom murmured and soaked into dust and decay, of her ancestors pressing their strong, dedicated hooves into warfare, persevering, persisting, enduring, of Isilme and all of its unraveling, snarled threads – but he could manifest and convey the influence, the dominance, the callous clarity of their puissance. His lips returned to their solemn, stoic finesse, machinations revolving and twisting into their meticulous threads, and he stared down at the child once more, murmured the grandeur of his challenge. “Let us find out.” The Reaper turned, shifted the molding of his nefarious statue towards the ocean, allowing the brine to engulf his hooves, to immerse the might, the domination, of his prowess into another, an overwhelming bounty of discordant fortitude churning and mingling together to satisfy a curious mind.
