| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 9 :: Birdsong Buff: NOVICE |
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Ragnar :: Plain Boggart :: Suffocate
Nevada |
Crash Course
High dive into frozen waves
Machiavellian, insidious longings, prowling, haunting amidst the gravel, the rubble, tail twining among the iron quarry, hunting as a wolf to the scent of fresh spilt cruor, teeth gnashing, breath laden with frost— the brine crashes against the seaside, drab and royal, skies awash with azure, splintering beneath his inclement spheres, bitter and impassive, crepuscule and frost-bound, savage and ruinous, devastating, malevolent, sweat beading in a fine lining of rime, the odor of salt prominent against his sweltering sinew, begging, pleading, observing— if a rodent dared to cross within his sight, it would suffer the pummeling of his hooves, and if a seagull endeavored to squawk among the pebbles, it would find itself lost at sea, sanguine staining the waters, for he was violent and vehement, rancorous and pernicious, depraved greed for the bodies of those whom had lain carnage against porcelain skin growing a fervor within his veins, aureate and caramel, ivory babes filtered with lacerations, yearning for the damnable men and craven women whom would lay a finger against their frames wilted as late blooming buds in the ravenous touch of the North, battered and beat, aspirations and ambitions crushed, thrown to the starved froth of the brine, scattered among the wind. He would not travel far from his homeland— for the vexation and distress knots within his scarred bosom, alabaster lace and rosy cheeks, liquid spheres dancing with mirth, a shieldmaiden, a shadow, a bloodhound, the impersonator and the mercenary, the guard, the warmonger with copper wine weighed upon his tongue, yellowed teeth and foul lips, necrosis, eradication, dissolution and demise, bottled mortality and settled graves, a enervated executioner, a all but pious wolf, a fool with the daydream of extinct lineage on the horizon.
The Siberian liquor of the tides splash against his pillars, anchors soaked within mere milliseconds, goosebumps forming along his worn husk of a soul, a acidic burn to the glacial brine, the salt cleansing the muddied feathers, soaked from snow dampened soil, grinding jaws and jagged frowns, leaving his mind scrambling in its startling wake, a shiver causing the muscles along his raw structure to ripple, a huff, a exasperated, jealous, ire hand grasping tentative against his pulsing, cardinal heart.
Where was he?
She had borne his children— whomever he was— and where was he? Where was he when the monsters had crawled from the dens, the Archfiends from their Labyrinth, purloined her as a mere item, blemished and marred, defaced, maltreated? Where was the cur when his babes were cauterized? (And with this, he feels a shard of guilt swarm within his cerulean veins, for he had left, too, long ago, fled from the borders for the petty taste of death on his hide, bled in war, almost died, and risen from the kiss of the grave yet more malicious, more baleful, more primed).
He had not defiled her with his seed, however, and then laid her to rot with the canines in the bushes. If he had known the desecrate circumstance she had been so wickedly been subjected to, he would have fought Hell's armies to meet her again— swung his scythe against all whom would have opposed her and her babe's return, beheaded and slaughtered, thrown to the massacre and left only the bones behind.
They would have known anguish before he had let them meet the Reaper, and he would have taken satisfaction in their screams.
Where was the craven mongrel, the baseborn cretin? Lavishing in the soon to come summer Sun?
(The all consuming outrage and disbelief that rises as a storm within his rigid, strained corpse scalds him as a wildfire to dried wood).
He had not seen sight nor sound of a sire since she had returned— and she had not mentioned a bag of.. a groom at her side. The ungrateful wretch had seduced her as a bride, had let her birth his seed, dazzling and alluring, enchanting and splendid daughters, and then vanished as the wind. He did not deserve her.
The inevitable axe tilts, the chain tightens, noose wrapped and his breath labored.
"Come to her again," taunting and tenebrous, shrouded, guttural and rich, possessive and baneful. His voice extends, floating upon the breeze, a thrum— effortless. "Death will not have mercy on your pitiful soul."
And neither would he.
@[Arah]
and I drown in you again
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