The sterling skies above the portcullis of alien realms and contaminated grasslands, contagion cursed palisades and winding valleys drenches and soaks the mortal dimensions beneath with ashen flakes— alabaster and pearl weaving and dancing betwixt stripped dryads and harsh winter brush, the dullest sprigs of emerald standing out as a patch of flame amidst the bleakness of evening star, enraptured in the lush promise of quietude and lost upon the false brine of pacifism.
  And then the blizzard parts in its carnage, entwining it's icy fingers within a mere shadow beast whom creeps from the laid naked wreckage of the damnable world, a incubus whom must bend the simple snowflakes to his will (if only it were so true, and not the meager act of nature).

It is he, the crowned emeer of the annihilation crowned childe, agnate of the succubus King— wolven curved fangs glinting amidst the dullest and dusty lumination, for in the very prints of his mother's eons old trail he has come, he has come to spread his malevolent and nefarious rapture, his carnivorous hunger, his superiority and domination, eradication of the cretin's and high-blooded right of rule (for it is his and his kin's alone birthright to the throne, not the throngs of buffoons to whom call themselves king's and queens).
The silver tongued son of Lady Death herself has arrived, a craving of kindling blown flames curling bloody wrapped fingers in the supple flesh of his rose fleshed heart, and he has come to rule them. His name is lost among the tides of the brine, sailed out to the frigid northern storms and cast into the bowels of Loorien's crust— but the daemon son believes it was once known as Veil.

   His mother had always a talent for naming her offspring, had she not?

Before his brooding cardinal oculus, Veil sees but a realm shrouded in twilight, ominous pillars towering and bubbling in the skies farthest away as smoke, greedy touch devouring the contours of his scope of vision as the bluntest of warning signs, the clearest of murmurs, the most boorish of farewells, and yet the onyx son had never been one for catching the most meager of hints.
All of this land was his.

And he would watch the very grasses cower beneath his hooves (for he was a God, and the feeble-minded inhabitants, if there were any to be found in this rotten place, had no choice but to marvel at his magnificence).
As he surveyed the (unimpressing) terrain before him, thoughts tumbling as the precise work of clockwork in his mind, a being came to him— it's fur covered frame the russet chocolate of a bushy tailed rodent, it's spine and upper frame a jumbled mix of burgeon and fungi, mushrooms, and although the sight may have stunned the more meager of his race, he did adhere with much interest to the dull minded creatures of the below ground (if the brutish emeer hungered for that other then ambitious power at the second in which it skittered upon a rock near him and gazed at him with agitated little chitters of a language he did not understand, he may have gulped it down with his carnivorous grin intact).

Could his mother possibly be in this.. decrepit and wispy frame of a land? What conquering beasts would she endeavor upon, rule over? What interest would she find in a realm of the weakened mortal beings? Did a system of sovereign extend past the wall of gloom, or did the equid who may realm the estate act as wild canines, monsters of impulse, and naught much else?
The creature is still incessantly gabbling nonsense.

The son of Lady Death is growing sick of it's song in his harks, and as a wolf to the scent of prey, his nonexistent hackles seem to raise, a glimmer of crimson and a row of amber stained teeth and a rumbling snarl of a voice that echoes from his obsidian bosom— his haunches bunch with the puissance and then the daemon lunges, ivories bared, a guttural barrage of a voice emerging from between two frozen lungs.
""I AM CREPUSCULE, I AM DISSOLUTION, I AM THE AGNATE OF THE DEMONKING!" The little being squeaks a cry from it's tiny throat, a twitch of minuscule muscle and it's bushy tail twisting into the dryads, snow kicked up as hooves draw to a halt, a harsh and elated chortle escaping his throat. "My claret runs with the molten lava that flows beneath the crust of this world, my teeth as the saws to slash down your meager right of woodland. I am a God above the likes of you."

Sweat that gathers on his hide has turned into a icy sludge in the chill of evening star, a grim smile curving upon his vermilion stained maw.
  "And you will not.. speak to me in your grovelling tongue unless I have given you my permission, rat."




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@[Confutatis]
(A tag for this beginning post, and no more!)