.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
09-30-2015, 05:22 PM
Death and destruction, demolition and desecration, held its limits; he had no prowess over the eternal flow of sanctuary and havens – could only bestow its arts through vigilance and violence. Rexanna required neither. He was left to mull and frown, furrow his brows into a deeper etch, a finer sketch, frustrated at his inabilities and ineffective sway: only heinous, only discordant, only brutal, only barbaric. His eyes never left her as she seemed to visibly wane before his calculating, nefarious stare: an arch of illness, of disease, floated along her features, hazardous and veiled, cloaked and malicious. Afraid, suddenly frightened (an itch along his spine, a crawling, pricking allure reaching below his heart and out across its solid edges) for the way the realm had concocted to plot against his kind, his comrades, the spokes of his voice reached, fractious and emboldened, taut and minute along the slide of weakness and potency – an unknown venom, an acrimonious toxin strangling the air. “Do you know what can?” He knew naught about its infernal predilections, the way it choked, the way it muffled, the way it punctured and harpooned the senses, unraveled and unhinged. How many had it touched? How many had it scalded? Was it to be like the last disease, rampant and unyielding, turning and twisting and changing everyone and everything in its path? Would they be forced to hide away again (and already his stubborn, wretched, despicable mind devoured the notion; he couldn’t be the coward once more, leading his people to grottos and catacombs, unsure how to fight against something invisible and insane)? The beast, once so callously indifferent, once so eager to execute instead of listen, nearly folded back into the notion of examination and enigmatic quandaries, when Rexanna pressed ever further - to the true nature of her summons.
The subject sparked, then incensed. It was an unfortunate inclination the Basin had towards being stolen: they were frequent targets. Perhaps some were too bold, too audacious, too detached or infernal. Maybe some were utterly deplorable and deserved the snatching, the snaring, the traps and gambits; but the rest of her words hung so precariously over the threshold, riling an inner malice, a contorted, distorted, misshapen cluster of hate and contempt. Ophelia - aiming to strike at had once been hers.
He’d thought her idiotic before. This act cemented the sentiments.
To what end did she seek Thranduil? To what purpose did she rattle their chains? Did she wish to delve further into her hypocrisy, absconding those she once protected and served? Was it meant as a warning, a siren, an alarm, a foreboding motion of her oncoming maelstrom? Was she sinking into her promised vengeance? Hadn’t she already done so with her dramatics, with her antics, with her ridiculous petulance along the Throat? And why target the gilded Lord? Shouldn’t her loathing lay with him – pinned upon his belligerent chest because he refused to grant her what she craved?
Didn’t she know he’d hunt her down? That he’d be the monster all over again? That he’d be the horrible, depraved predator, stalking and hunting, devouring and consuming, until she was absolutely nothing?
The art of bedlam chiseled its way back to his face: gone were the fleeting remnants of compassion, replaced, varnished, and consigned to oblivion. Mephistopheles, Hades, Lucifer, a primordial scythe, an arched, detached heathen returned to the vestiges, harpooning infernal incantations though his closed jaws, through his treacherous, unforgiving distortion; drawn back into the sketches of annihilation. A tempest, a gale, an inferno, turbulent and searing, simmering and seething, restlessly poured upon the earth as a rapier, a living blade: portending, auguring, promising persecution. “Thank you for the information.” He obliged, stared at her from the rim of his vile mortality, from the villain ramparts swarming his mind, ominous and subversive. “Do you know where she resides now? Or where she came from?”
The subject sparked, then incensed. It was an unfortunate inclination the Basin had towards being stolen: they were frequent targets. Perhaps some were too bold, too audacious, too detached or infernal. Maybe some were utterly deplorable and deserved the snatching, the snaring, the traps and gambits; but the rest of her words hung so precariously over the threshold, riling an inner malice, a contorted, distorted, misshapen cluster of hate and contempt. Ophelia - aiming to strike at had once been hers.
He’d thought her idiotic before. This act cemented the sentiments.
To what end did she seek Thranduil? To what purpose did she rattle their chains? Did she wish to delve further into her hypocrisy, absconding those she once protected and served? Was it meant as a warning, a siren, an alarm, a foreboding motion of her oncoming maelstrom? Was she sinking into her promised vengeance? Hadn’t she already done so with her dramatics, with her antics, with her ridiculous petulance along the Throat? And why target the gilded Lord? Shouldn’t her loathing lay with him – pinned upon his belligerent chest because he refused to grant her what she craved?
Didn’t she know he’d hunt her down? That he’d be the monster all over again? That he’d be the horrible, depraved predator, stalking and hunting, devouring and consuming, until she was absolutely nothing?
The art of bedlam chiseled its way back to his face: gone were the fleeting remnants of compassion, replaced, varnished, and consigned to oblivion. Mephistopheles, Hades, Lucifer, a primordial scythe, an arched, detached heathen returned to the vestiges, harpooning infernal incantations though his closed jaws, through his treacherous, unforgiving distortion; drawn back into the sketches of annihilation. A tempest, a gale, an inferno, turbulent and searing, simmering and seething, restlessly poured upon the earth as a rapier, a living blade: portending, auguring, promising persecution. “Thank you for the information.” He obliged, stared at her from the rim of his vile mortality, from the villain ramparts swarming his mind, ominous and subversive. “Do you know where she resides now? Or where she came from?”
Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.
- bg - table - art -
@Rexanna
