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10-04-2015, 07:49 AM
Too much of the unknown was a penchant for frustration, and it built and built and built over the layers and lacquer of his nonchalant, reserved gaze. It slowly, carefully, pervaded, thickened into a bitter, rancorous relish, dissolving through his stare and hardening the brutality of his taut, silent frame; at Rexanna’s dissolving, withering gaze, at the feast of enigmas, at the haunting melancholy of mysteries and their foul air, slinking and slithering and snickering. Too many whys and not enough answers strung him for a reticent, recherché, tactic, narrowing his brooding fixtures and staring over the horizon, attempting to smother the bits and pieces of hatred, of contempt, of pure, utter, distinct loathing from chasing over the cliffs and landing, launching, harpooning somewhere beyond the snow and ash. He was utterly powerless and useless in the face of disease, or even knowing where the Forsaken resided so he could acquaint her with one more searing, toxic, malicious gesture, bury her in the sea of her ridiculous antics, in the stupid, unwinding motions she so often declared.
But Rexanna’s offer was tempting; no matter how much he craved Ophelia’s annihilation, no matter how much he yearned, longed, wished to bury her beneath the sands and never hear, never see, never sense her presence again, he’d never been afforded the gift of discretion. The beast could calculate, conspire, persecute, and ruin, but the world would know he was coming in an instant; all death, all demise, all quiet, unholy measures – Lucifer’s dreaded scythe, Mephistopheles’ forged blade. Always a weapon and never a masquerade, his skills were unlike the slithering sleuths, persistent and smiling, goading and forbearing, chasing and devouring the truths, the riddles, the crimes against their kingdom. He was the executioner – and he doubted, when push came to shove, he’d receive the information he sought. Perhaps she held more connections than he – an easy task, when faced with brutal, keen honesty – and could ensnare, entrap, the veracity between hollow lies and hallowed regard. It was vexing all over again, to be so out of touch, to be so incompetent, to be so utterly incapable of doing anything for his cadre besides destroy, obliterate, and ruin. A molten sigh billowed past his lips, uttered before he had an opportunity to smother it, infernal stare regarding the Phantom with the slightest hint of reverence, respect, and the barest, meager interlude of petulance. “If you wish,” because he was begrudging and wanted to smother the Forsaken under his own accord, “and report to me soon thereafter.” He paused, bestowing a belligerent nod, strained and annoyed and so exasperated at his faults and flaws. “Take care of yourself. I will do my best to discover cures for your ailment.” It was the least he could do.
But Rexanna’s offer was tempting; no matter how much he craved Ophelia’s annihilation, no matter how much he yearned, longed, wished to bury her beneath the sands and never hear, never see, never sense her presence again, he’d never been afforded the gift of discretion. The beast could calculate, conspire, persecute, and ruin, but the world would know he was coming in an instant; all death, all demise, all quiet, unholy measures – Lucifer’s dreaded scythe, Mephistopheles’ forged blade. Always a weapon and never a masquerade, his skills were unlike the slithering sleuths, persistent and smiling, goading and forbearing, chasing and devouring the truths, the riddles, the crimes against their kingdom. He was the executioner – and he doubted, when push came to shove, he’d receive the information he sought. Perhaps she held more connections than he – an easy task, when faced with brutal, keen honesty – and could ensnare, entrap, the veracity between hollow lies and hallowed regard. It was vexing all over again, to be so out of touch, to be so incompetent, to be so utterly incapable of doing anything for his cadre besides destroy, obliterate, and ruin. A molten sigh billowed past his lips, uttered before he had an opportunity to smother it, infernal stare regarding the Phantom with the slightest hint of reverence, respect, and the barest, meager interlude of petulance. “If you wish,” because he was begrudging and wanted to smother the Forsaken under his own accord, “and report to me soon thereafter.” He paused, bestowing a belligerent nod, strained and annoyed and so exasperated at his faults and flaws. “Take care of yourself. I will do my best to discover cures for your ailment.” It was the least he could do.
Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.
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@Rexanna
