.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
04-19-2015, 03:21 PM
 The Reaper arrived amidst his home with the sunken endeavors of iniquity thrust along his shoulders; he’d fought no battle, merely stood and watched like a snared buffoon – a campaign in brutality established but left decisively wanton. He maneuvered and motioned as a feral behemoth all the more, disappointed in the loss of his pursuits, in not being able to chase down a Falls infidel, not being granted or proffered the chance, the opportunity, of knocking someone to their knees and swinging his scythe through their nape; demonic temptations wasted. Were he alone in brooding solitude he might have sighed, might have frowned, might have found other means of violence and vehemence, but no sooner had he slid into the rime, into the gallows, did a meeting of minds seem to take place. Pegasi lined up along his threshold, muttering about deaths, the Forsaken unleashing her questions, her queries, and as he sidled within their confines, all insurrection, all defiance, because this was his home, his throne, and he had every right to intrude upon their exchange, the words and phrases glimpsed through his mind. Midas is dead. The occasion called for a brutal silence, and he adhered to it with haunting discretion, mind rolling and recoiling, trying to trace over how he felt about the admittance. The gilded Lord had been in their care, a captured titan in order to keep him away from the battle, but there had never been instructions to vanquish him from the earth, to lead him into demise (but did that truly unsettle the beast?). Ulrik would have the answers, he’d been the guard, the watchdog, the might and dominance beyond their walls while the rest of their brethren played upon war’s grandest stage. Through the murky confusion, through the strange, altering doldrums, he indulged in a singular pledge, driving conviction into the disgraceful filaments of the unholy diatribe. He passed only vague inclinations of nods towards beasts and vermin, providing his tones for Ophelia, then turning as swiftly as he’d come, following the brambles and thorns of their Engineer’s mysterious, wayfaring snares. “I will find him.”
DEIMOS
delivered from the blast
last from a line of lasts and now the kingdom comes crashing down undone |
image credits
