The Reaper was stone and steel in the face of her anger, in the tangled tapestry of her wrath, an unmoving fixture, a brilliant, eldritch statue teeming, reeling, with the essence of demise and quietus. One ultimate plunge of her sword towards his frame, and he’d have permission to annihilate her; but she was wiser than that, leaning only into the merest threads of respect, rescinding gnashing, colliding caprice. His eyes scoured, glanced, and his figure betrayed nothing, because she was so evidently consumed with hate, with malice, with menace, with blinding fury, but naught behind it but the ghost and remnants of potential. He knew contempt, he knew loathing, felt it soothe and corrode in the ire of his skin, felt it consume and unravel in the weight of his stride, felt it seethe and tear in the coiled springs of his muscles, but without purpose, without credence, without notion, it was just another tangible, corporeal, fleeting nuance, a hindrance, a weakness, an enemy could see, an opponent could contort and possess. With motivation came the churning, seething knives and the decadent array of condemnation, a spiraling convolution that stole, that desired, that fed upon the fuel of instigation, that offered one more purpose, one more driven contention towards the desecration, the murder, the mayhem, of conquest and triumph. It gave oaths and lives, promises and benedictions, unholy vows and sullied veils, phantoms and specters, purchase and regard, legacies and rancor. Rhiannon’s was too untamed, too wild, too fresh and new, maneuvering in the frenetic cycle of injustice and wanton, rampant, carnivore upheaval when she should have yearned for sedition, when she should have longed for subversion, when she should have reached for revolution. Blazing and provoked, with no kindling to brew a true inferno, missing vital pieces and soulless, heartless, voids and hollowed enamel, an inkling of capacity and lacking the proper harness, the right harpoon, the sharpened tools of the trade; but a rich, exotic flavor of abhorrence could be infused, ignited, if given just the right dose of motivation. The piercing slate of his demonic eyes traced the lines of her features, the measure of her story, the weight of her endeavors, and like a caustic whim, like a brooding machination, added ammunition to the flare of derision and scorn. “Then you should.” She should conquer and devastate those that wronged her, those that made her bleed, drive them back into the murky depths of destruction, rot and ruin; hadn’t they been trying the same acts for so long? Each play differed, but the finales always ended the same – and in this hour, another foil, another cast, loomed to enter the stage. He loomed, he presided, he stood in Machiavellian prowess, in pernicious potency, weaving the hazardous threads, cold and calculating, waiting and watching for the finesse of the undone to sink into her bones. “Do you desire to exterminate everything?”


@[Rhiannon] [Doesn't matter to me! :D]