.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
02-02-2015, 05:31 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
[ Very sorry about the wait :C ]
His quiet breathing punched through the dark air as pale clouds, chilled by the magic floating through his blood. It was tempting, to for once give in to its destructive powers and hold nothing back—to kill on a whim, to show the world just who he was. What he could do. What he would do, to reap every ounce of pleasure he could from it before he destroyed it.
He would watch it burn. He would set fire to his pain and fling it out, and watch it eat away, crumble all it touched.
And in the end, he would burn with it, and finally be freed.
Teeth ground together, the moon-mad glint arcing through his eyes as his gaze deepened, its focus burning onto the faerie mare. "I'm sorry, did I offend you sir?"
The spitting image of courtesy and grace, a well-trained child bowing to an affronted elder and seeking forgiveness for the missteps she didn't know she'd made. His lips curled into a cruel, wicked grin, heart thundering recklessly—and the words he found on his tongue were not his own, but something dredged up from memory. d'Artagnan had been the one to say them. "Your presence offends me."
What was it with young, gray mares and padding into the lion's den? And at all the wrong times? It was amusing in its irony, reality phasing into memory, and he found himself wishing for the Red's company: for his biting words and cruel sense of humor, and.. simply for his presence.
It was too close to the pain. It was too close to the weakness in him, and he slammed the doors shut on those emotions, those memories. He did not want to be weak tonight. He did not want rationality, and sanity, because with it came the unbearable pain. He wanted this, oblivion and blue rage, the bloodthirsty fury simmering in the chill of his blood just beneath the surface.
And just like Nyx had tried to get dismissed a thousand times, this mare, too, offered to leave. As if she needed permission, an order, something more tangible than the flinty wrath of his pale eyes burning in the darkness. Could she not see for herself, that she ought to leave? Could she not feel it creeping up her spine, as the owls circled with hungry gazes and silent wings? Had she no sense of self-preservation, or did she believe he had a right to take whatever it was he wanted out on her?
Perhaps she sought life in the forbidden and the dangerous, a rush through the dull deadness of the ordinary—something exotic, something different.. hunting a thrill.
Or maybe she was just stupid.
"You should run," he told her, voice deathly calm and smooth. From the ground next to him rose a spire of ice, a pale spear forcing its way through the earth and up into the air. A single, deadly weapon rising in salute to its master, and his head canted subtly towards it—studied it with quiet fascination. It had been a while since he had called upon his arsenal, and studied their individual grace, their subtle differences, and watched the moonlight trace their cold edges. The grin returned to his lips, darker, more eager, and his gaze slid back to her. Truly, a sparrow; he stomped out the remains of his heart and settled in the chill vein of fury. "Before this finds your heart." The ice spike stood cold and silent, a promise hanging in the air around it.
[ @[Malificent] ]
His quiet breathing punched through the dark air as pale clouds, chilled by the magic floating through his blood. It was tempting, to for once give in to its destructive powers and hold nothing back—to kill on a whim, to show the world just who he was. What he could do. What he would do, to reap every ounce of pleasure he could from it before he destroyed it.
He would watch it burn. He would set fire to his pain and fling it out, and watch it eat away, crumble all it touched.
And in the end, he would burn with it, and finally be freed.
Teeth ground together, the moon-mad glint arcing through his eyes as his gaze deepened, its focus burning onto the faerie mare. "I'm sorry, did I offend you sir?"
The spitting image of courtesy and grace, a well-trained child bowing to an affronted elder and seeking forgiveness for the missteps she didn't know she'd made. His lips curled into a cruel, wicked grin, heart thundering recklessly—and the words he found on his tongue were not his own, but something dredged up from memory. d'Artagnan had been the one to say them. "Your presence offends me."
What was it with young, gray mares and padding into the lion's den? And at all the wrong times? It was amusing in its irony, reality phasing into memory, and he found himself wishing for the Red's company: for his biting words and cruel sense of humor, and.. simply for his presence.
It was too close to the pain. It was too close to the weakness in him, and he slammed the doors shut on those emotions, those memories. He did not want to be weak tonight. He did not want rationality, and sanity, because with it came the unbearable pain. He wanted this, oblivion and blue rage, the bloodthirsty fury simmering in the chill of his blood just beneath the surface.
And just like Nyx had tried to get dismissed a thousand times, this mare, too, offered to leave. As if she needed permission, an order, something more tangible than the flinty wrath of his pale eyes burning in the darkness. Could she not see for herself, that she ought to leave? Could she not feel it creeping up her spine, as the owls circled with hungry gazes and silent wings? Had she no sense of self-preservation, or did she believe he had a right to take whatever it was he wanted out on her?
Perhaps she sought life in the forbidden and the dangerous, a rush through the dull deadness of the ordinary—something exotic, something different.. hunting a thrill.
Or maybe she was just stupid.
"You should run," he told her, voice deathly calm and smooth. From the ground next to him rose a spire of ice, a pale spear forcing its way through the earth and up into the air. A single, deadly weapon rising in salute to its master, and his head canted subtly towards it—studied it with quiet fascination. It had been a while since he had called upon his arsenal, and studied their individual grace, their subtle differences, and watched the moonlight trace their cold edges. The grin returned to his lips, darker, more eager, and his gaze slid back to her. Truly, a sparrow; he stomped out the remains of his heart and settled in the chill vein of fury. "Before this finds your heart." The ice spike stood cold and silent, a promise hanging in the air around it.
[ @[Malificent] ]
