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02-02-2014, 04:03 PM
Shrouded in silence, in decadence, drenched in sin, in licentiousness, cloaked in daggers and furtive rings around a Reaper’s throat, he sought to swing his scythe into beating beings. But there was nothing, naught but the tangle of labyrinths and mysteries, enigmas, quandaries, and unending queries, and he couldn’t bloody, wreck, ravage and ruin vessels without corporeal forms, set to haunt, implore, weaken and devastate the calamity they’d started. He, like so many of his other savage brethren, were forced to acrimonious waiting, zealous, fervent tides ebbing and flowing for the bitter taste, the poignant shards and gravel of a ferocious tumble into the waves, into the sea, into the rubble and ruin over their chaotic sway. The monster harbored violence, an old friend, a constant companion, harpooned it over the legacies of maelstroms and mayhem, followed it to the ends of the serpentine earth, watched and witnessed as his destruction lent its merciless power, and now, he was without its sway. Demise was an inefficient march, or so the GildedBlade had claimed before she too was swallowed into the rancorous depths of the unknown, and though his sword could still plunge into hearts, into lungs, into sinew and flesh, rip it apart with the savage pervasion of lifetimes lost and swindled, the soulless, the heartless, wouldn’t hesitate to bind him into pestilence either. So he was ragged and split between duties; to brutality, to disorder, turbulence and mayhem, the brilliant, acidic taste of venom and ichor spread over sands and dunes, or searching out his patriots, ensuring their safety while they coasted amongst unknown, enigmatic quarters. To choose the latter was a disappointing venture down pathways he’d rather not trod upon, because his strength existed in the essence of satanic, infidel composition, the molding of his Lucifer finery in the depths of death and discord, strangling the inept, burying the foolish, reaping over the wiles of the inefficient. What he wouldn’t give to call to his flock, watch them rise over the alms and pedestals of chaos, burn bridges, commit mutiny, spread the seditious splendor of their unholy reverie and rapture.
But he couldn’t, and that only infuriated the beacon of heresy even more. Instead of clambering into the wastelands and rupturing the inklings of upheaval, he scalded and scorched the innards of the sanctuary, riddling and contorting them with the displeasure of his reticence. An impassive, moving brutality, a slinking, sinuous bounty of ferocity brimming and brewing beneath the surface of nonchalance, sinking further into the scales of turmoil and cataclysm; waiting for the appropriate moment to lend his cruelty into the factions of this rancorous siege. Seeking, searching, yearning to obtain a notion, a way, to combat the forces lurking beyond their world, to reach towards their icicle kingdom again, spread supremacy and sovereignty over and over until the drums of war beat upon thickened skulls and announced their undaunted domination. Deimos maneuvered amid the glow of the unsung grove and grotto, a silver, steely fortress of augured maelstroms and foreshadowed bedlam, wilting the hours away until the earth was conquered and enslaved beneath his hooves; daggers to the throat of the virtuous. Sinister and serpentine, marked, etched and designed by Tartarean fortitude, and wholly inept at delivering the merciless machinations to those who deserved it the most.
[Open to any~ Info on W.A.R. would also be wonderful. :D]
