Freeing the prisoners (open)

the Rift

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

#15

12-08-2012, 01:17 PM

Squalls and squeals, screeches and screams, all of the unfolded paradigms of insipid stipulations that reached his ears and were dutifully ignored, disregarded. Enemies - their words were the incredulous, petulant derisions of cossetted, indulged whims, lacing demands amongst the empirical skies, tracing their terrain over and over again with the consumption of accommodated merchants. First they wanted a home and beat upon their doorstep with sordid, tumultuous shrieks, outcries of a bludgeoned nation, weakened and clamorous – ensnared it into their threshold, made it their own, while shields and swords fell against malicious terrain, banished from the regions of their sanctuary and shelter. Now they came again, fists pummeling, insistent and brooding, lamenting, haunting the hallways of their convictions with the aspirations to dictate once more. Never fulfilled, never gratified, avariciousness clawed in all of their gullets, and even those uninvolved paraded into the grounds like they owned this acrimonious world, scarring the din with more of their tremulous, whiny mewls and howls; gruff, ungracious, inhospitable clients of the Edge and Throat. And oh, he recalled how he’d taken from them before, even in their drunken songs of victory, their sonnets of triumph, he’d made a conquest of his own, destruction in the silent stretches of war, and this only incensed him more, made him yearn, made him crave that scrupulous diligence of death, mayhem and pain, how to make them burn, how to make them scream, how to make them wither and die within the chambers of this new home. Foolish and unwise, they traversed upon a realm strengthened by exile, stalwart, staunch, confident, and the dimmest, dankest threats carried by murmurs of incapable beasts would not cease the calamity harbored within the Basin’s inhabitants. Scorned, derided, chased away from the shelter of their storm, they’d been provided with a new palisade, and had no intentions of blustering away successes upon those so undeserving, so inadequate. Threats? Warnings? Ultimatums? And what would these trespassers do to them that had not been done before? The absolution of their own melancholy had been enough to prepare them for a course in vengeance. For what did you expect when you played, toyed, and capered with fire?

Revenge bled into their wounds and made them whole once more, the incensed, the outraged, the writhing, wrathful inclination of beasts, of monsters, of behemoths. And he, the terrible demon, the vile, the horrible, was amongst the boiling, brewing, intrepid nation of supremacy, of domination, of annihilation, of infernal, carnivore bliss. Violence and animosity, simmering distortion and debauchery under the layers of blackened, unholy violence, unforgiving, nefarious, noxious, lethal prose and poise, aloft to the Tartarean and Stygian guile of his frigid mayhem, of his predacious immorality, penetrating and piercing the taut, minute motions of his frame. He watched with rich, guarded silence, imperious recherché, ravenous reticence, as they stole against the chords and coveted, desired, the release of their prisoners. Obnoxious and defiant, scaling across the horizon of ice and wonder, beating their plundering drums to the tune of the ages, archaic and destitute, slinking and rolling in their arched commands. Detached and nonchalant, he stared at the shrieking owner of the dragon, the grating haze of blue lacerating the core of the glazier, unimpressed, undaunted, unflinching in the crashing wave of defiance and insurrection. Even when the Pegasus rolled in, an unnecessary being flapping his wings to a tune that was not his own, to a quandary not involved in his pursuits or business, the ardent savage remained composed. Only when they’d finished, did he begin any motion, any coiling of sinuous distortion. He moved from the eaves of shadows, General, commander, the menacing plunge of frightening brutality, the scrape of infernal dissonance, serenity and tranquility thriving in the necromancy of his rapier torment. Formidable, unattainable, unreachable, a pariah to virtue and a heedless, ruthless, malicious heathen blighted by the heavens, ensuing a plague upon many houses. Drenched in fine, undulating muscles, the roll of his power coveted to the spark of his ire, of his loathing, of the silent, chilling, cold, damnable trace of his satanic opus. Puissant and pernicious, he chose to drown the gilded Pegasus (did he not chain some of the Basin’s into an oubliette as well? was this hypocrisy in the midnight shell?) in the wake of his corruption, in the ethereal essence of his debauchery, in the cloaked, minstrel tides of diabolical mayhem and bedlam.

The harsh, blunt, scrape of his voice echoed from his chambers, not a whisper, but a booming hark chasing away any belief that they would whimper and crawl away, the feral decree, the ferocious, the predatory, edict of his own mastered bidding, staring down the brute who longed to take his prisoner. He stepped before her, the miserable, withering Svetlana, between freedom and captivity, ushered her sentence before the Glazier, the Sultan and their hiding cronies, henchmen, minutemen. “No.” There would be no rescue, there would be no hope, there would be no salvation in the arms of divinity or assurance in petulance. They, this collected brethren of supreme souls, would not allow their world to be tossed aside again for the grandeur of the deficient. And in his humming decadence, the enchantment of his antagonistic nature churned, the reeling, silken threads of lethality, morality, rose to lace and lance across his skin, to burn the hearts of the virtuous, to slaughter, massacre the feeble, the delicate. Impending danger, augured, presaged destruction, the heinous, fierce friction of sinister terror, locked within the clarity of an unforgiving, eldritch titan. It whispered against the eaves and crossed the passageways of bliss, harboring the ill tides of the forlorn, the raptorial predilection of the caustic, mordant and scathing. He would utter a warning once, and only once, before their rippling chains stroked scythe sedition. “Leave.” And if they did not, he would take every last breath they uttered, every heartbeat, every swirling emotion, until those, precious fleeting moments were overwhelmed with the stinging lucidity that they had failed.

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