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12-06-2014, 04:23 PM
The Reaper challenged, provoked, dared, opposed, and defied, and all it left him was the searing harpoon of his own ineptitude.
He faded away from the unraveled contortions of their ill-fated meeting, the announcement of a new Lady and an old one shuffled, pardoned away, like the GildedBlade’s strength hadn’t mattered and neither would his in eventuality: he too would perish like dust, like ash, like earth, back into the ground and forgotten. No legacy bestowed, no memories cast, all the sheep collected and numbed to the changing of hands and thrones, smiling and laughing and ignorant as the world tumbled in its constant, swirling chaos. Perhaps this was what irked, irritated, and vexed him the most; for all his brawn, for all his might, for all his vigilance, the Time God assured him he had no control; every decision, every Machiavellian design, had been laid out for him since the day he was born. He’d been chosen by the devil’s symphony, Lucifer’s sacrilege, Mephistopheles delight the moment he took his first breath, sculpted, molded into isolation, into stealing away from family so they weren’t harmed, chiseling away at himself until he was an indifferent vessel, a reticent husk, with no regard, with no emotion, with no feeling towards others because he’d kill them, he’d take their final heartbeat, he’d steal their last thought at a whisper’s touch, a vile caress, a fiendish whirl.
But it had to be wrong, for he was no lemming, no mindless lamb, no shuffling ignoramus, because he always made his own decisions – calculated, examined, investigated with cold vigilance and hardened resolve. He captured chaos and curled it in his fist, he waited with soulless conviction for the right moment to strike, and he brutalized, he pulsed, he craved and relished the paradigms of unholy vows like a rapture, like a reverie, like a sin, clinging and plunging his knife through the thickened diatribes of old, pious men and their virtuous ways. He was the ivory snow’s black blade, the terrain’s pervading, nefarious delight, the bewitching, alluring, beguiling precipice of danger and distinction, and he carved away the wiles, the deliverance, the rectitude of moral creatures. The beast refused to believe in destiny, in fate, in some otherworldly divinity bestowing them scripture, that their losses, their casualties, their faults and flaws had always been written, they’d been pre-determined to lose, lose, and lose again, watch their home get torn away from them, witness their foals be captured, tied and tethered, seen their allies, companions, taken into pestilent vows, chained and fettered because another commanded it. They’d been faulted by their own weaknesses, by their own failures, by their own mistakes and mishaps. If left by the deceitful vows of the stars, they might as well have given up altogether, formed a silent stance and gazed as the world careened around them, lost to the perils of fate and providence. Deimos was no idle whim of fortune, no monster of kismet, no saint of serendipity; if the hands and wheels of time yearned for him to conform to their scripted details, they’d have to break him first.
The brooding behemoth settled back into an age-old routine: isolation, bleak, detached, and forgotten, ignoring the wholesome vestiges of Birdsong’s reign, clambering towards the highest rise upon the highest peak. His penetrating stare surveyed his vast domain and its eternal containments, the bombardments of stone and rock and rubble that would be there long after they’d all been cast aside by their patron deity, brewing his latest frustration through the simmering bout of his blood and the poisonous essence of his presence. Thereafter, he removed himself from the open terrain, settled deep into the recesses of a nearby cavern, so no one else could feel his rage, his animosity, his contempt, his abhorrence, but the silent earth. His wrath unfurled, uncurled, without restraint, scaled, licked, savaged the walls of the grotto, covered and scaled, caressed and obliterated, the heartless fathoms of his distinct, vicious reverie; loathing and brooding, a heart stolen by steel and endeavored into fervent, wanton yearning for something he always thought he had: power.
[Open! :D]
He faded away from the unraveled contortions of their ill-fated meeting, the announcement of a new Lady and an old one shuffled, pardoned away, like the GildedBlade’s strength hadn’t mattered and neither would his in eventuality: he too would perish like dust, like ash, like earth, back into the ground and forgotten. No legacy bestowed, no memories cast, all the sheep collected and numbed to the changing of hands and thrones, smiling and laughing and ignorant as the world tumbled in its constant, swirling chaos. Perhaps this was what irked, irritated, and vexed him the most; for all his brawn, for all his might, for all his vigilance, the Time God assured him he had no control; every decision, every Machiavellian design, had been laid out for him since the day he was born. He’d been chosen by the devil’s symphony, Lucifer’s sacrilege, Mephistopheles delight the moment he took his first breath, sculpted, molded into isolation, into stealing away from family so they weren’t harmed, chiseling away at himself until he was an indifferent vessel, a reticent husk, with no regard, with no emotion, with no feeling towards others because he’d kill them, he’d take their final heartbeat, he’d steal their last thought at a whisper’s touch, a vile caress, a fiendish whirl.
But it had to be wrong, for he was no lemming, no mindless lamb, no shuffling ignoramus, because he always made his own decisions – calculated, examined, investigated with cold vigilance and hardened resolve. He captured chaos and curled it in his fist, he waited with soulless conviction for the right moment to strike, and he brutalized, he pulsed, he craved and relished the paradigms of unholy vows like a rapture, like a reverie, like a sin, clinging and plunging his knife through the thickened diatribes of old, pious men and their virtuous ways. He was the ivory snow’s black blade, the terrain’s pervading, nefarious delight, the bewitching, alluring, beguiling precipice of danger and distinction, and he carved away the wiles, the deliverance, the rectitude of moral creatures. The beast refused to believe in destiny, in fate, in some otherworldly divinity bestowing them scripture, that their losses, their casualties, their faults and flaws had always been written, they’d been pre-determined to lose, lose, and lose again, watch their home get torn away from them, witness their foals be captured, tied and tethered, seen their allies, companions, taken into pestilent vows, chained and fettered because another commanded it. They’d been faulted by their own weaknesses, by their own failures, by their own mistakes and mishaps. If left by the deceitful vows of the stars, they might as well have given up altogether, formed a silent stance and gazed as the world careened around them, lost to the perils of fate and providence. Deimos was no idle whim of fortune, no monster of kismet, no saint of serendipity; if the hands and wheels of time yearned for him to conform to their scripted details, they’d have to break him first.
The brooding behemoth settled back into an age-old routine: isolation, bleak, detached, and forgotten, ignoring the wholesome vestiges of Birdsong’s reign, clambering towards the highest rise upon the highest peak. His penetrating stare surveyed his vast domain and its eternal containments, the bombardments of stone and rock and rubble that would be there long after they’d all been cast aside by their patron deity, brewing his latest frustration through the simmering bout of his blood and the poisonous essence of his presence. Thereafter, he removed himself from the open terrain, settled deep into the recesses of a nearby cavern, so no one else could feel his rage, his animosity, his contempt, his abhorrence, but the silent earth. His wrath unfurled, uncurled, without restraint, scaled, licked, savaged the walls of the grotto, covered and scaled, caressed and obliterated, the heartless fathoms of his distinct, vicious reverie; loathing and brooding, a heart stolen by steel and endeavored into fervent, wanton yearning for something he always thought he had: power.
[Open! :D]
