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09-27-2015, 09:13 AM
The world was amiss again: another venomous spiral of the wicked, of the duplicitous, of the deceitful. But the Reaper didn’t know where to start or how to understand it; where to condemn, how to unravel, where the melee twisted and turned, how he could slaughter it before it untangled, damaged, and ravaged his people. No stranger to chaos or diabolical designs, too full of Tartarean regard, too fixated on the friction, the menace, the formidable eaves of uncanny, eerie echoes, he remembered the ways the earth had betrayed them. He recalled monsters in the shape of their friends, bleeding and haunting and annihilating until they were all forced underground, fleeing and escaping instead of fighting. He recollected souls swept away and destroyed for no reason at all, found laden with clues pointing to Gaucho and the Moon Goddess. Each and every time, naught could be done but wait, agonizingly wait and wait and wait – and he hated every moment, every stitch, where he was just as helpless as the rest of the realm, biding their time until the next axe fell. The demon could only remain idle for so long, trapped, incensed, blistering and scorching and reverberating annihilation. Caught in the abyss, in the hollows, he consumed what little information he’d gathered, on the ruffian parlors, on the entombed and enshrouded glee, on the malicious, cruel ardor floating between horrors and blades.
He maneuvered across the Basin as a reticent, cold, incensed rapier, intending to polish calamity, yearning to lacquer sinister, savage pursuits into the devilish croons, into the plundering factions wreaking havoc on his disciples. But a call howled through the sunsets’ eaves, familiar but weakened, ensconced in the bleak calamity threatening to unwind all, and like a faithful cutlass, he followed, drawn to the annals of vengeance and deliberation, squandering the thoughts of his safety for the predacious anarchy of information, of callous, malicious threads roaming together, tied, tethered, and knotted. In between the void, the hollowed, the sunken, gaunt reaches of his compassion, he saw the golden traces of her stance, the roll of her weakened composure, the pressing hues of the remaining light dimming, unkind and blistering as they turned membranes black and silence into hacking. Even Rexanna, a phantom amongst their thieves, had been swindled and tarnished by the noxious fumes.
The Lord’s head lowered, yards away, gazing at her by the lake’s reflection, unsure of what to do, what to say: because he always cherished death and its heedless, ruthless wiles, because he encompassed its pleasures, its rites, its raptures, and wouldn’t know how to relish in its opposite. “You are unwell.” Deimos fed and consumed on too much of the malevolent, on the cruelty of the earth, on the ways horror pressed its way through each and every column, blade, or serenity; but when it glimpsed and touched over his brethren, he fought and bit and tore against it. But how could he destroy something within their own frames, poisoning, scorching, and unraveling their beings? His once nonchalant features distorted into visible vexation, annoyed and irked by being futile, ineffective, and pointless, a sword without a head to cut – only a Reaper, only a weapon. Ignorant of her true whims and wishes at his arrival, he pressed his sovereign score back into the lost rays of light. “Shall I fetch a healer?”
He maneuvered across the Basin as a reticent, cold, incensed rapier, intending to polish calamity, yearning to lacquer sinister, savage pursuits into the devilish croons, into the plundering factions wreaking havoc on his disciples. But a call howled through the sunsets’ eaves, familiar but weakened, ensconced in the bleak calamity threatening to unwind all, and like a faithful cutlass, he followed, drawn to the annals of vengeance and deliberation, squandering the thoughts of his safety for the predacious anarchy of information, of callous, malicious threads roaming together, tied, tethered, and knotted. In between the void, the hollowed, the sunken, gaunt reaches of his compassion, he saw the golden traces of her stance, the roll of her weakened composure, the pressing hues of the remaining light dimming, unkind and blistering as they turned membranes black and silence into hacking. Even Rexanna, a phantom amongst their thieves, had been swindled and tarnished by the noxious fumes.
The Lord’s head lowered, yards away, gazing at her by the lake’s reflection, unsure of what to do, what to say: because he always cherished death and its heedless, ruthless wiles, because he encompassed its pleasures, its rites, its raptures, and wouldn’t know how to relish in its opposite. “You are unwell.” Deimos fed and consumed on too much of the malevolent, on the cruelty of the earth, on the ways horror pressed its way through each and every column, blade, or serenity; but when it glimpsed and touched over his brethren, he fought and bit and tore against it. But how could he destroy something within their own frames, poisoning, scorching, and unraveling their beings? His once nonchalant features distorted into visible vexation, annoyed and irked by being futile, ineffective, and pointless, a sword without a head to cut – only a Reaper, only a weapon. Ignorant of her true whims and wishes at his arrival, he pressed his sovereign score back into the lost rays of light. “Shall I fetch a healer?”
Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.
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@Rexanna
