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02-17-2016, 06:05 PM
Immoral and iniquitous, he labored and toiled across the grounds of his sovereignty. Given opportunity, given chance, given a renounced fury and flurry of invocations, he would’ve been entangled in behemoth rhapsody, tearing apart nuances and virtues, ripping and annihilating and coiling amongst the heathen throngs. Dangerous, licentious, ruthless, and raptorial, he stalked the fine loam of their persecuting sentiments, relishing in the deliverance of their devilish quandaries (how well they’d concocted their schemes, how easily they’d taken and absconded – and he had to ask himself why they hadn’t done it ages before). Unholy clarity, behemoth sedition, and resolute, ferocious carnage – it all sung to vibrantly, a keen note in the vigilant discord. Poised for domination, prosed for supremacy, he wandered down the rapacious chords of their violent revolution, of their heedless tides and ravenous predilections, narrowing his gaze towards the sights, the sounds, of the impending oblivion and the accompaniment of a once formidable friend. The King was a moving piece of marble, a maneuvering block of stone, of rubble, of ruin, fixated on the pieces scattered amongst their glacial expanse; nonchalant and reticent, voicing nothing of his emotions, naught of his sentiments, and only loosening his tongue when he came upon the miniature group, the wiles and labors and schemes prospered by a Thief and Haruspex. Deimos nodded to the painted beast, to the gilded femme, to all the layers of formidable prowess lacquered between them. He was impressed with their credentials and potential, and though he wouldn’t announce or consecrate these thoughts, the notion was extended in the chisel of his menacing vocals. “Well done.”
Then, across the loam, he glanced at their intended victim. How long had it been since he’d last seen Crowley? The Weaver had once been a promising blade in their crowd of swords and hatred. He’d been a part of the abhorrence, a piece of the creed, a particle of the oaths they’d shared, covered, and collected. But then he’d left, and there seemed to be a thousand secrets layered amongst the void. Where had he gone? Why did he disappear (why did so many of them simply vanish)? What had he been doing while buried along the earth, while tied to nothing and no one? The questions rolled along his skull, but were never voiced - always an examination, but rarely audible scrutiny. The eerie, hushed, hardened facets of his indifference cracked just a little, very minute, barely noted, along the devilish pull of his mouth – perhaps a smile, perhaps a grin, perhaps a boyish touch of what used to be and what could never occur again. Then, his words followed, brief and keen, strong and enduring, prospering none of the demonic interludes coiling within his Machiavellian mind. “Welcome home, Crowley.” But it was a start – an instant, to incense and unravel and dissolve the pernicious, specious scope of the past, present, and future. Could they return to what they once were? Could they restore and revitalize the fiery, vehement minds of old, renew the archaic designs? Or were they just too far-gone, too rattled, too apathetic to closing doors and vacant halls? Was Crowley one more of the blackguards destined to simply remain in the past?
Then, across the loam, he glanced at their intended victim. How long had it been since he’d last seen Crowley? The Weaver had once been a promising blade in their crowd of swords and hatred. He’d been a part of the abhorrence, a piece of the creed, a particle of the oaths they’d shared, covered, and collected. But then he’d left, and there seemed to be a thousand secrets layered amongst the void. Where had he gone? Why did he disappear (why did so many of them simply vanish)? What had he been doing while buried along the earth, while tied to nothing and no one? The questions rolled along his skull, but were never voiced - always an examination, but rarely audible scrutiny. The eerie, hushed, hardened facets of his indifference cracked just a little, very minute, barely noted, along the devilish pull of his mouth – perhaps a smile, perhaps a grin, perhaps a boyish touch of what used to be and what could never occur again. Then, his words followed, brief and keen, strong and enduring, prospering none of the demonic interludes coiling within his Machiavellian mind. “Welcome home, Crowley.” But it was a start – an instant, to incense and unravel and dissolve the pernicious, specious scope of the past, present, and future. Could they return to what they once were? Could they restore and revitalize the fiery, vehement minds of old, renew the archaic designs? Or were they just too far-gone, too rattled, too apathetic to closing doors and vacant halls? Was Crowley one more of the blackguards destined to simply remain in the past?
Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.
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