There is no goodness left here, no shamble, shard or fragment of morality left in the barb of his sodden blood. The mottled brine of his salvation is no more, gone, vacant and hollow; content to wither and die with everything he caressed. Like a blade, he lived in the darkest ardor, dangerous, cunning, rapacious, and callously cruel against the maladies of yesteryear’s fallen fortunes, insolently intending desecration in the midnight strife of harkening, strident overtures. He plunged against the earth, contorting the brilliant conveyance of vicious toxicity, the hiss of steel caressing one last fatal kiss in cool calamity, the final twist of poisonous rapture singeing malleable flesh in a silent, nocturnal reverie. Frigid, statuesque effigy poised in the unholy audacity of blessed malevolence, withering harmony and discordant strife, the rancorous immersion of deadly, virulent savagery slashed upon his entity and made him whole along the intertwining eaves of gloomy silhouettes. Suffocating, stifling power in dipped brazen arts, fluid macabre eloquence, craving vindictive entropy in the chained links of sin and desecration, too wicked, too vile, too corrupt for the babes of heaven to cherish or praise. Brutal, ruthless, condemned, he wandered with a thief’s mind and a barbarian’s swagger, a ruffian’s hushed muse to a warrior’s poetic finale. He crept and stalked and brooded in that fine, hedonistic endeavor, heartless amongst the chronicles of torment and lechery, a behemoth in the solid foundation of felled paragons, a brute in the heated baritones of vagarious footfalls. He did not dream, did not hope, did not wish, only plotted, schemed, and conspired with that marauder’s striking gleam and that stoic’s imposing figure, blending seamlessly into the evening’s courtship of scintillating subterfuge. Each step was rigidly calculated, there was no harsh cacophony of snapping twigs, fatally coarse in their fallen, chiseled state, no lush, feverish balm of discordant stumbling or trampling mercy – merely the fine finesse of a slithering cutlass, a scythe brimming in lithe tracks, molding into the scenery of twilight anonymity. Carnal monster carved from the handsome heathens of feral lust and primordial yearning, his lean columns reached to the breadth of a whisper, solidified in tones of debauched mastery, stroked the sultry, midnight cords of haunting dusk in the softest, lightest embrace, threatened and loomed in the same instance, pulsed feverish calculations of medieval misery. Undulating, animalistic fervor brushed and floated against pewter insurgency, rumbling growls of despair echoing from the bounty of their plum forest, a poignant minuet composed by the decadent phantom. Eloquence and elegance in the radiant frame of bewitching danger, an allure of deadly armaments, bent and yearning, threads of vibrant hostility made to chill in glacial webs of stone and impassivity strove into the onslaught of finery, the dazzling, hot cords of primal power and dominance. He was the distinction, the sumptuous display of ethereal potency, that gave delicate poison and humming rapiers an even sharper gleam.
”Nay, no more!” – the land screamed as he scorched their wild, listless hands, watched with chilling approval as the terrain gave way to his demonic contortions. Feverishly they sank, dwindling with a final, rapid breath, deluded, lifeless pinnacles. Over and over, he lacerated streams of existence, entities of unsung harpsichords with his sinister, nefarious frame, mage of death. Lacquered by the seething concoction of noxious toxins and virile tenacity, they roamed in weathered, tattered frays and rose to meet the sun time and time again with the same vicious intent, to consume each lasting thread of might that defied their beating, bleeding hearts. Villainy was his passionate indulgence, a searing mantle of disgrace torn and encased in the malicious entertainments of specious smiles. Contempt hailed and bathed in his artful, slender machinations, so brilliantly wicked in the condemning essence of love and hate, insurrection in the most deceiving grins. An archaic demand fueled by hostility and urged on by the ravenous resplendence of triumph and ruthlessness, searing, blistering, and scorching in the cascading windfalls of petulant menace, madness and malice.
Malice never struck so rapidly as sin gave into sin, strangling compassion in the contemptuous breadth of limited hours, intimidation in the duplicity of fervent artists. The air rumbled and scorched in stifling intricacy, bleeding licentious credence over the bows and arches of sweeping, plumed cavalcades. This was not where he was born, amongst the swooping tides of dune and sun, and perhaps this was the only thing that humbled his swarthy, silent movements. A threatening, callous bounty of sin and iniquity, twisted into the rigid entity of havoc, a taciturn, reticent menace twined in the anarchic solemnity of corruption, he stared, rustling apathy in the cool balm of his sinister, argent glare. There was naught here to recognize; scorched earth, burnt shambles of former beauty, a cliff dangerously concocted amongst the abyss. He snorted, but otherwise did nothing to convey his disappointment, fostering indifference with a stoic resonance. Quiet in his abhorrence, his calculating air drove him onward, taut and collected, his muscles wound with precious, sanctimonious control, authoritative with his savage steps, pulsing nonchalance, apathy, in the cruel architecture of weightless motion. Ceasing movement at the pinnacle of a nearby prominence, he said naught; the tyranny of his gaze, the anarchy of his presence, the bedlam of his essence, existence, had already warped his appearance. Homecoming for the wicked.
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master of nothing place, of recoil and grace
