The swindling, binding storm of contempt brewed, and he stirred the frenetic pot with Machiavellian airs, watching as it bubbled and frothed, foamed and lathered, coming to a virulent boil as she spat out her decrees, her hatred, her lavished, decadent desires to plunge their enemies into an early grave. Were he any other creature, he may have applauded the brindled beast for her animosity and odium, would have punctured the ground with his ruffian smirk, would have spilled their carnivorous wake to the heavens and watched it fall; but instead, his reticence remained, while his nefarious mind pulsed with feverish machinations. “That is enough.” Her malice, her menace, could only provide them with another tool, another weapon infused with endless anarchy, molten desecration, infernal iniquity, piercing, harpooning, brandishing their abhorrence upon the world as they were meant to do – there would be no other way but for their kingdom to flourish, and for others to seethe, simmer, then wither away, bleached and barren in the ides of their march. She asked about outlets, about releases, about purposes driven through the onslaught of their terror, and he almost gave into the pulse, the torment, the wiles of their pestilence, of their harbored nuances and depraved motives, but she drew another line from her seditious mouth – lingering on the touch of feminine, siren songs, and a rumble, a laugh, blunt and caustic, as if rarely used and even rarely heard, split over the atmosphere. A brief glimmer of a smirk hastened to his lips, curled over their indentation in a boyish regard, as if lamenting days long past since he’d ever had a sense of wonder, of humor, or pondered over the alterations others had over him. Huyana and his family had morphed him in some avenues (compassion and caring; reserved for their presence), and in others, protection, safeguarding, violence, only spurned and urged him for more strength, more brutality. His answer, however, slid along the rime like a ghost of a joke, a goading lull, a rousing interlude in between the measures of hate. “Depends on the woman.”

The Reaper, the Lord, the King, hastened back to prior calculations with the same lines of indifference and nonchalance, inwardly tethering and shackling the words and phrases he’d need to bound together another member for their malicious society. His own recruitment had been easy, simple, and with the ammunitions, the venom and vitriol hastened, galvanized, across the stature of Crowley’s daughter, he perceived it follow much of the same. He spun a revelation through the heavy, heady enamel of his words, narrowing his eyes towards the bursting revolutionary, conjuring, conspiring, uniting. “I do.” He paused, cementing and devouring, consuming and burning, enticing and alluring. “My father once told me our race was meant to rule the world. Perhaps yours did the same?” He tilted his head, piecing together memories of Ignatius, toying with other herds, planning and plotting to unravel their chords, threading transgressions and treachery across sands and dunes. “There is a group with the same mindset.” The icy, chilling conviction of his orbs pressed harder, penetrating, binding, meticulously tearing away the wounds of the earth, winding their way back into the shackle of their augured upheaval. “Would you be inclined to join?”

@[Rhiannon]