Drawn acrimony, sketched brutality, and rendered savagery sculpted the terrain with his scrupulous demands; the acrimonious haze, the vicious, violent muddling of twisted disasters, defiant and seditious, varnished in the heinous glow, the ravenous splendor of fiendish predilection. Death and destruction, distortion and calamity, the seething roll of firm, stiff, unyielding puissance, drifting along the intangible eaves of brooding, arcane acrimony, animosity conformed to his flesh, to his blood, to the hushed tunes of his detached contempt. He watched her, the lacerating, indifferent stare glossing over the rigor of her ferocity, of her barbarity shelled and shackled in the whittled tombs of that blue creature. The chiseled arrogance of his ruthless candor remained, he was still and silent, untouched by her malice, by the menace stoked and flamed, by the turbulence quelling and fanning amongst the ire of the locked pathways. He noted her audacity, the bold fierceness embroiled in the chambers of her heart and mind, the gilded, tawny eyes that locked glares with his baleful, wicked intrigue, and pondered what other strengths lay hidden within her frame. They needed that resilience, that mettle, gathering, mining, collecting and assembling suitable candidates for illustrious campaigns, for drenched pursuits of the heathen, of the unholy, of the immoral; willing bodies aching for slaughter, yearning for annihilation, partaking in the foils of licentious creeds, joining in the rapture of destruction. Could she fight? Could she instigate? Could she repel and defend? Could she damn and condemn, just like they, in the shades, veils, and mantles of their heinous atrocities, the boiling, brewing maelstroms that pervaded their lungs, that contorted their whims, that controlled their actions and motives? Where did her pursuits lead, and could they ultimately be useful to their blighted reign, to the sovereignty rippling from a hallowed, hollowed valley? And what did she hate more, what did she loathe, detest, abhor? Weakness, loss, incapacity? He didn’t change before her, retaining the resolute architecture of his carved wake, unreachable, unmoving, unattainable, untouchable, forever unaltered by the caprices of futile beasts and heathens; too lacquered in the same varnish and enamel. The cold, cool reverie of his voice uttered more nefarious, noxious syllables, tarnishing the air with the chilling resonance, the dominion, the annihilation, the unsung violence sibilating across the air, choking, strangling, ruining benedictions and breaking aspirations. “It may be alike to ours.”