.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
03-09-2014, 12:25 PM
Silence strung loose chords of shambled wares and apathetic gazes, enigmatic, hushed, listless, strangled and suffocated, tethered and trapped, amongst the imbalance of power and the unknown; the Reaper forced to remain in death’s infernal, listless paradigm, enticed into pragmatic schemes while the rest of the world waited for a sinuous, ferocious touch. Tainted, scorched, and blinded by the unsettled nuances of the blackened realm, of shadows he couldn’t bind or shades he couldn’t ravage, the heretic bounty, the nefarious outlook, stretched beyond the corridor and into the heartless labyrinths. What was left of the wretched world? How many were still chiseled into monstrosities? How many were still carved into canvases of demonic lunacy, spouting foam and spraying depravity? Were any of them his own comrades in arms, fighting, crawling, slithering their way across parlors and halls? If he were to plunge his knife, his sword, his cutlass, his rapier, into their hearts, into their lungs, into their chests, would they survive, or would he be just as diseased as them, crowned a deranged king, cackling on his icy dominion? Caught in the languid web, his sinister machinations, his severe ruminations, dragged their puncturing stare over to a newcomer, red witch, eldritch and cloaked, spouting and sprouting siren sonnets. He cast the wicked depths of his nonchalance, Machiavellian designs fixating, contorting, pondering over the fathoms of her power, if enchantments seared and scorched, if she brewed spells and potions, if her cauldron seized with fire, indulgence, and enmity, like his contempt, malice, and menace stirred violence, villainy and dominance. The Reaper delved into more of the obscure, unaware of the notion of her presence, of the reasons beyond her sorceress whims or Cheshire grins – he offered the modicum of respect back upon her flesh, a tip of his cranium, the deleterious scroll of his insouciant throne. A stone’s throw, a curt tone, an introduction of the heartless, of the corrupt and immoral. “Deimos, Lord of the Basin.”
Words passed, twisting and distorting, of infidels creeping and crawling, of poison poured down gaping mouths, of infections and pestilence, cities waiting to be sieged in dust. Even acquaintances were shared along Circuta, and his eyes narrowed into reticent slits, calculations burning through the haze and maze. Warriors, spies, leaders and followers – we need everyone. - what war did they yearn for? The taste of the banshees along the ruins, against the sanctum, the afflicted clawing, rasping? Or was there something else lingering, an unseen, unspoken notion, eyes flickering back and forth, and he, the satanic sculpture, the Lucifer laureate, the demonic dream, suddenly a pawn in their pursuits? Was there a world, a kingdom, a realm to be gained beyond the whims of the insane, the intrepid, the resolute, bedding down with the maddening storms and the harsh gales? Because he could take, he could abscond, he could maim, rip, tear, bleed, and claim the avaricious, covetous chords for his herd, his prowess, his precision, his might, and his pernicious steel – but not without the right motivations, the right means to an end. If they wanted him, his patriots, his comrades, his warriors, his swords and shields, what awaited their triumph? Slashed throats, mauled enemies, bloated corpses? The appeal of decadence, raw and indulgent, savory and smooth, wicked and barbaric? He pieced together finality, irreverent distinction, plagued vocals, hostile and trenchant. “To what end?”
