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01-10-2015, 08:31 PM
Fresh from the raw, unrelenting squall with the crimson bull, the Reaper drifted amongst the shoals of the Endless Blue, savoring the seditious splendor of his victory. Like a bestial foe, like an ancient, arcane rapier, he’d polished his scythe on one more corpse, felled a beast who’d been sent to conquer him, to push him amongst the waves and gallows, to sink him into the depths of Neptune and Poseidon, to entreat him to the callous grails and graves. It’d been close, near, and while he wouldn’t forget the beckoning sirens, the cloistered waves, he also wouldn’t force away the satisfying efforts of his conquest. It’d been too long since he’d relished, tasted, forged his own path, tied the immoral threads of his prowess, of his pernicious harpoons, of his sharpened cutlass, and driven it straight into the heart of a fellow, barbaric monster. So, like a keen, avaricious devil, like a ferocious blade, he scourged and scavenged the flowing tides, the everlasting current, the hostile interludes, tracing over the foundations of his mastery – for the taste had been delicious, ambrosial, even as he laid in the sands and felt his lungs coated in fire. He possessed the element now, could sketch and etch the pulse of his father, of his ancestors lined and enameled amidst his veins, pervading, surrounding, like brimstone, like coals, like death and infernos mixed together to cultivate a mass of destruction and chaos. A threatening, treacherous muse of Lucifer, he clung to the outcrops and the dunes, slithered along the wake of the sea, and reminded the ocean’s song that it didn’t have him today. The marble monolith would have continued in his impassive, nonchalant onslaught, while his heart thrived with a rebellious tumult, a blistering, scorching supremacy, if his piercing stare hadn’t captured movement beyond the breaking tide: a deer, a fawn, adrift and bleating.
No sooner had he considered the strange circumstances did another familiar shape come into view, wholly unexpected and bizarre. The gilded Thranduil, Thief and specious soldier, arrived abruptly to drag the tiny animal away from its potential death, and the whole scene was an intriguing anomaly Deimos simply couldn’t ignore. Had the golden beast ensnared himself a companion? Did he actually care about something beyond himself (which was perhaps the oddest sentiment transpiring over the scene; because why did one heartless being bother about another’s sudden transformation?)? The notions conspired and clicked and ground against each other, and the Lord found himself staring, transfixed, by the odd elements and blistering peculiarities. Incapable of not pondering over the inconsistent manners, he maneuvered closer to the Thief, tilting his head in careful examination and scrutiny, as if deciphering and piecing together all the moments he’d known Thranduil, and not being able to fathom or process the new information. The cold, chilling calculations and machinations required answers, and the boyish curiosities of old flooded over his membrane and tongue until they poured in indifferent lacquer, one brow quirked, trapped and ensnared. “New friend?”
@[Thranduil]
