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09-09-2015, 06:17 PM
He’d never lost a part of his malevolence, a surge of his heedless, ruthless calculations. Too much of an infernal pariah, too renounced, too forsaken, he was entombed in the ongoing struggle between right and wrong, compassion and damnation, building tenuous bridges of understanding, of comprehension, before whittling them away down to nothing over and over again. The Reaper, while seeking, while stretching, while wandering for ways to adhere to sagacity and wisdom, still yearned, still longed, for the taste, for the ruin, for the art of dissolution and disrepair. He desired destruction and massacre as a moth to a flame, poised for domination, posed for supremacy, hankering along resolute carnage and forbidding invocations, a ghost, a ruin, a wraith, a phantom, launched and lacquered in the searing pulse of acrimony. Anarchy long since ended, he’d had naught to relish, to feast upon, no pillaging, no plundering, no absolution tarnished or taken away; and all the restlessness clawed against his insides, rasped across his chest. He forgot about his heart and its broken little bits, he forgot about the lure of mercy, and merely became a study in violence, a sculpture of the devil’s distorted manifest. The monster’s skin crawled with sedition, with predacious exploits, with rolling, curling, coiling annihilation, and it contorted through his breath, through the slow, meticulous movements, through the carnivore reverie slipping and slinking amidst his thoughts: prey on the loose, unwinding and unfurling from its shadows. Once majestic, once proud, once more than a fleeting, drawn breath, the elk was a likely portrait, a canvas, of their foreboding future, when all their strength withered, when all their minds warped, when everything they had was gone. But the barbarous titan, the cruel king, the ravenous beast, would never dream of his structure becoming naught more than an imposing skeleton, a cast-aside specter, a lavished predator searching for its last days. He lived down in the annals of resolution and determination, hoisted and harpooned finality with the touch, the stroke, the finesse of his presence – he’d likely twist and turn and exhale his last moments on the battlefield, cloaked and covered in red. Maybe that’s what the other beast hoped for: a fitting end for a long, lingering tale.
The winter Lord’s hunt was not to be alone, however – rosy hues etched their way along the horizon, a gilded movement unveiled from thin air, and suddenly he felt utterly compelled to laugh despite it all. Would they ultimately work together, not for the herd, but for the chance of treachery and demolition, the rush, the zeal, the ardor, of death? Wasn’t that just like the Basin thrones, to conspire, to unravel each other, only to be pulled back in again for the sake of damnation? He could almost see Mauja smirking. He could almost hear Psyche snickering. He could almost imagine Illynx cackling.
But instead, his eyes were drawn, narrowed, fixated on their motions as the rush began: he was a machine of war, a plague of immorality. He wouldn’t be fed into the entanglement of his rulers’ horns, bewitched and allured into friendly fire – so he pressed from the hills, from the shadows, launching naught but solid, stoic movement, a wolfish gleam, a pressing opportunity. The notion to utilize his enchantments, his necromancy, were clear and barbaric, etching a thin line along his skull and wishing, hoping, dreaming for their chance to make the world fall apart, and the itch of infernos drank its fair share of his veins, grappling for domination and demise – but they were likely to use this elk for something thereafter, and a burnt pelt would do no good. Instead, he approached the opposite side of Thranduil’s pursuit, towards the hind of the guardian; wondered about gods and all their leaves, all their shelters, all their shackles, and intended to aim for its right flank, swiping his long horn towards its sector, its sanction, becoming all the more hollow, all the more bestial, all the more nefarious – drowning in his raptorial reverie.
[I really didn't know which direction Thran was headed in, sorry Hawk. D: I just assumed a position, and headed for the elk's right flank, intending to lacerate its hind with Deimos' horn.]
The winter Lord’s hunt was not to be alone, however – rosy hues etched their way along the horizon, a gilded movement unveiled from thin air, and suddenly he felt utterly compelled to laugh despite it all. Would they ultimately work together, not for the herd, but for the chance of treachery and demolition, the rush, the zeal, the ardor, of death? Wasn’t that just like the Basin thrones, to conspire, to unravel each other, only to be pulled back in again for the sake of damnation? He could almost see Mauja smirking. He could almost hear Psyche snickering. He could almost imagine Illynx cackling.
But instead, his eyes were drawn, narrowed, fixated on their motions as the rush began: he was a machine of war, a plague of immorality. He wouldn’t be fed into the entanglement of his rulers’ horns, bewitched and allured into friendly fire – so he pressed from the hills, from the shadows, launching naught but solid, stoic movement, a wolfish gleam, a pressing opportunity. The notion to utilize his enchantments, his necromancy, were clear and barbaric, etching a thin line along his skull and wishing, hoping, dreaming for their chance to make the world fall apart, and the itch of infernos drank its fair share of his veins, grappling for domination and demise – but they were likely to use this elk for something thereafter, and a burnt pelt would do no good. Instead, he approached the opposite side of Thranduil’s pursuit, towards the hind of the guardian; wondered about gods and all their leaves, all their shelters, all their shackles, and intended to aim for its right flank, swiping his long horn towards its sector, its sanction, becoming all the more hollow, all the more bestial, all the more nefarious – drowning in his raptorial reverie.
[I really didn't know which direction Thran was headed in, sorry Hawk. D: I just assumed a position, and headed for the elk's right flank, intending to lacerate its hind with Deimos' horn.]
Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.
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