Deimos the Reaper Death, you bring death
A Mephistophelean finale, coursing and drumming and winding its way through the thick columns of autumn, pressed its wicked, gnarled fingers across the vicious harpoons, against the acrimonious calculations, unsettled, but still triumphant. They’d already managed a victory, a hold over the Falls, a bludgeoned battle of mixed anomalies and broken spirits, but this one, the beckoning, siren-song of vengeance, had been the culmination he’d been looking for, a piece of violence, a promise of vehemence. The Lord of winter, with his Siberian wiles and his cold-blooded machinations, had waited for revenge as patient, as stoic, as ever. While the world rose in a swell of panic, while the earth chimed and echoed in her grandest outcry, while the Edge fettered into leadership quandaries and maligned purposes, the beast was ever-composed, a titan on the horizon, a calm, composed monster. Hotaru had written the rites, the scripts, the alterations, and he’d beseech her every credit for the figure behind their prison gates. She’d orchestrated, she’d arranged, she’d adapted, the malicious tidings ghosting behind their eyes, and the Reaper grasped, clenched, and tightened his malice, his menace, into its ambitious fragments. They hadn’t tricked and deceived, mauled and bludgeoned, for no reason – the clarity, the sharpened bouts of purpose, of motivations, clipped along his skull and made silent raptures of the unholy reveries. A mother, a nurse, a citizen, a soldier of the Basin, snarled and snagged and taken without warning, without cause, worn into demise and quietus, fumbling into the coils of scythes. Deimos could remember her in bits and pieces, a white woman, like a ghost, scolding Mauja’s insistence on his acceptance into the Edge, a healer tending to her wounded flock, a dam resting with her babes in the wild, untamed regions of a new land, a new empire. She’d proved her loyalty time and time again, raised Basin children, soothed Basin soldiers, and rattled the dominion of their icy world until it pulsed with satisfaction. Then, she’d been gone, laid to waste without objectives or scorn. Retribution was upon them now, layered and lacquered between the iron slate and wooden door, a murderer chained and shackled within their confines, awaiting his sentence, his quick, rapid trial, his shifting, plunging weight plummeting into pits and pendulums.
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[PRIVATE] not every hen lays eggs
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04-26-2015, 09:53 AM
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Messages In This Thread |
not every hen lays eggs - by Oxy - 04-22-2015, 09:01 PM
RE: not every hen lays eggs - by Deimos - 04-26-2015, 09:53 AM
RE: not every hen lays eggs - by d'Artagnan - 04-26-2015, 04:19 PM
RE: not every hen lays eggs - by Hotaru - 04-30-2015, 11:34 PM
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