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01-05-2014, 07:17 AM
Carved from the side of mountains, rock and rubble, living Lucifer claws and irreverent iniquities, touched and beloved by a child of flowers, crowns and laurels, Daphne and persimmons, combination of rain and death springing from rubble and ruin. Instead of abhorrence, instead of repose, their strangeness and charm molded into beauty, elegance and curiosity; any atavistic prose and poise would likely filter and trickle into her being later on, as her world, horizon, blackened, charred by the nuances of their vile, cruel tendencies (but he’d be behind her, surrounding her with the presence of strength, potency, power laced and corroding the innards of enemies; desecration in her hands and daggers). In the present, she was allotted the precious rankling of time, awarding her with the gifts of knowledge, curiosity and intrigue, journeys curled from the set of her widened eyes, the expression of wily, cunning deeds, or even the harsh deities spinning webs and snares from beyond. The notion of gods and goddesses had never touched upon his soul with any acclaim, honor or faith; his convictions had been long since chiseled away into contempt, loathing, and vehemence, pierced by devils and infidels, until he was eldritch, until he was abominable, horrifying, the terror in the midst and mist, stifling shadowed abysses and hostile labyrinths, ensuring destruction in the wake of his existence. Perhaps long ago, when robbed of childhood, he would have denied their dominion, spit upon their twisting hands and swiveling pawns, unleashed wrath and fury as they were played for puppets and fools, marionettes bending to the will, to the elation, to the joy and exuberance of other, worthless beings. Now a chilling, avaricious blend of unattainable, unapproachable regime, he coiled naught passionate for their motives and rationales, attempted to live through their anarchy, then equip his own harpoons, rapiers, and cutlasses to sever the rest of the world.
But Loth’s perturbed notion at not being seen, at not being recognized, would be a lesson in strength. Perhaps she was not ready to be seen as anything worth noting (to which Deimos would forever disagree; light of his life), for the gods to grant her caustic grins and hedonistic smirks, heretic dreams and grasping nightmares. For that, he remained grateful – because then they wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t drain her, wouldn’t scar or maim her until portended, foreshadowed arms and munitions beat a cascading drum of might. The winter King’s features, usually impassive, reticent, withdrawn and empty, with only the iron slate of his eyes resting upon an individual to insist his malice, his animosity, cast shades of the father he once knew; supportive, resolute, tenacious and formidable. He lowered his muzzle for a few moments, allowed it to touch and caress the eager, lapping brine, moving it swiftly to cast a few drops of the salty water over his daughter, splashed by an element her mother represented so well, longing to wipe and wash away the frown embedded between her brows. His voice followed, pensive and speculating, chiseled, sculpted, molded for purpose and conjectures. “The mirror is a vessel of the God of Time. It has many uses and intentions, but perhaps, not reflection of one’s image.” Deimos paused, collected more words, another grin curled into the left side of his lips, boyish tendencies revived again in the essence of his daughter. “Even one as lovely as yours.”
