Freeing the prisoners (open)

Freeing the prisoners (open)

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527

Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5

Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB

Heather

12-04-2012, 06:38 PM

Plucked by the devil’s chords, fatality strung by macabre threads of debauchery, he drifted over the shadows of the basin, aligning himself to the enamel of its portals, the unlocked gates that allowed the whims of depraved knaves and knots access to unholy irreverence. He’d spent the toiling hours of exploration grating away at the seams of the Aurora, stealing away the bliss, replacing it with carnivore rapture, and carved new holes for his seclusion, isolation, the candor of his acrimonious wake. The turmoil of their strength, for one grandeur led to another ruin, herd land a gain, absconded members a loss, had led him to haunt the sanctioned villa of their ethereal bounty, scarring the borders with the precarious touch of his vicious, wild necromancy. The constant rise and fall, the tedious maelstrom of bedlam and triumph, dismal platitudes and melancholy; he didn’t falter or sweep the decay of their artifices, but remained as impassive as before, puissant and pernicious, toxic and infernal. He reaped and scythed, plagued and devoured, and would continue to do so even if the weight of the earth pressed down upon their motives and erased all aspiration from their hides – he was eternally demonic, unattainable, unreachable, tainted and detached. Forever impassive, unaffected by the anxiety of followers, by the trepidation looming amongst their ambitious boughs, he would be successful, even if the rest were not.

Now, he shifted to the winds, harsh as he, as unrelenting, as ruthless, as callous, carrying the sword slits of their meticulous considerations, of their treacherous schemes, of the gallows ushered by their raw enchantments – and also, the scent of another. Amongst the layers of melting ice, came adrift the fancies of an ivory lizard, draconic, seemingly meandering along the coils of rampant, frigid air. He turned his head from the dominion of shadow and Stygian brew, focused his piercing glare upon the floating, pallid creature, studied it with the rapier reverie of a wolfish, rapacious blackguard, calculated his next menacing effect. Such companions were not suited for the cutlass-ed species, therefore, it belonged to another, gliding along their territory, trespassing with an associated instead of their own presence. For what purpose? To what avail? He tilted his cranium for a moment, eyeing the beast as it swiveled amongst their catacombs, before becoming the ruthless, ethereal grace of diabolical design all over again. The strands of his wretched heresy whispered against the rolling muscles, coiled, taut and avaricious, diverging from his soul and towards the reptile. A savage dance, ghosting along the corridors, the brine and animosity of his diligent, scrupulous opus, wraith and wrath coasting, lingering, gathering in the direction of the unknown confederate.

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