.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
12-01-2012, 12:49 PM
The act of gods and goddesses were normally not his concern. He remained just as indifferent, just as detached, as he had when he arrived to the Edge and when they were forced to leave. Nonchalant and aloof, wild, fierce, feral, he pierced then unleashed acrimony, not emotion, not reactions, not heartfelt sentiments that flew from his bracken heart. He hadn’t been distraught or waylaid by their loss (for in the fury of the battlefield, he’d carved his own triumph, known the taste of victory in the midst of pyrrhic consequences), merely etching desolation and seclusion into the depths of winter, into the carnage of lingering distortion. Yet now, in the swinging scythe of restoration, one deity promised them something, uttered words that could wring temptation from their mouth; that could arch the antagonistic canon of their scheming. They’d been growing, slinking amongst the runes and ruins of a chilling, glacial expanse, biding their time for the whims and fancies of others to be absconded, stolen, dominated and devastated. Insurrection, annihilation, sedition in the cruelest, heedless fervor, where the danger of their finery, the breadth of their revolution could be reignited, incensed in the blood of neglected souls. He stepped forward instantly, the cold, ruthless gaze of his cerulean stare pinpointed upon the deity that clamored of revenge, that riddled their loss with his grin, offered the shards of their return. One word ghosted, passed, from his lips, a grating sibilance that churned and burned through his mouth, exact prose that could claim a palace in which they no longer drifted, but defeated, pried conquest from the dead hands. “Land.” To foster vengeance, to procure strength, to riddle the world of calamities and maelstroms over and over again, to deliver retaliation amongst those ensconced in their moonlit world, to reign supreme in their rightful place.
