He felt the contempt, the searing, stinging gesture of underestimation. Vicious in its cruel, crude, Machiavellian design, meant to temper, kindle, and ignite arrogant flesh. In his childhood, he would have burned and simmered, scathed and recoiled, harkened to bestial shades of glory and rendered this political slate void – a reckless, brazen youth coiled in rancorous, discordant indiscretions. He would have condemned, damned, screamed in foolish, audacious bravado; to be scorned, to be demoralized, to be diminished and miscalculated, the fault would have been great, a slander, a bruise upon his esteem. But in age, experience, and isolation, he had grown cold. When one has nothing to care for, nothing to fight for, nothing to live and breathe for, the embers died. One by one, they flickered out, lost in the abyss of emotional tribulation, lost in the desolate, forsaken aptitudes of harmony. Fire had slowly turned to ice. The chilling resilience of his barbed contortions was now an irrepressible substance, lacquered tightly to the enamel of his argent coat, his rogue countenance, the archaic, feral breath of his being. In this nefarious, noxious, brooding turmoil, he would remain the statue, the baleful, malignant course of infernal grandeur. He knew of his own prowess, the savage, predatory ferocity sibilating in his veins, a venomous hiss, a toxic plunge, a radiant competence of menace. He wouldn’t be wounded by a phrased strike, a dismissive sneer. If this leader, another individual made from frigid glaciers, did not wish to use his powers, then so be it. He could render his services elsewhere. Deimos remained motionless, a hardened, solid beast of muscle and composure, nonchalance, apathy, insouciance caressing the sinister prominence of his stoic features. Words slipped beyond him, and where others would crawl for the mercy of their monarch’s heart, he stood.
”I can fight.” His voice slipped out, rough and crackled, frayed from the deepened tenors of long silence. But then the opposing brute continued, and sliding from his tongue was a familiar wind, a dangerous predilection that stirred pieces of Deimo’s blood – oh, he could remember the days of anarchy, relish, pool, seethe in a laced, distorted contempt. There was the slip of his father’s voice urging abhorrence for those not of his kind, the heat of the Tides’s bane, the rampant discretions, the longing abominations, the yearning of annihilation. A slight reaction appeared on his features, carefully poised for a tender, breath of a moment, but his brows lifted, the piercing, ruthless stare incited, the touch of a smirk emerging across his masculine lips. A devil’s chord chimed in the mottled course of this hostile land: he wanted a piece of it, a dry, toxic taste of the succulent conflict, the clashing, grating succulence of disaster, mayhem, bedlam. The scintillating loathing, the reeling acrimony, the rancorous belligerence, a desire for bloodshed; it was all he had left in the forsaken strides of his untouchable essence. He allowed his vocals to ignite again, a smooth, sardonic ripple this time, a bending notion of knowledge he wanted to hear. ”It depends on the purpose.”
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master of nothing place, of recoil and grace
