He lacquered fire and brimstone to his heart, allowed it to smolder and die within the incensed, infuriating flames of coiled embers and ashes, until everything around it withered and wilted, consumed, devoured, by malice, menace and malevolence. An assassination of his own emotions and sentiments, he spent hours of desolation and forlornness as a rapier, as a blade, as a cutlass swinging its sharpened arch into catacombs and tombs, into mayhem, into despair, sculpting the time into loathsome decrees and lacerated enigmas. He marched with bellicose crescendos, fed festering coals the last lullabies and songs of reverent souls, lavished and consumed the cords of indulgence, smothered chirps of sonnets. He moved as entropy, disorder and chaos, a hostile breath, a virulent exhalation, a serpentine, sinuous decree of callousness, unmerciful and trenchant, mordant and caustic, the molten, infernal knife ready to carve into carcass, pierce prey. A merchant of death, demise and licentiousness, the carnivorous, the despised, the reaper hissing alongside the gallows, he was eternally ravenous for the next calamity, the next upheaval, the next seditious splendor that could irk his veins and hum against his bones. The wicked, the treacherous, the dangerous, he protected and proclaimed loyalty to the barbarity of their new wretched reign, to the mountains of their meticulous contortions, to the valleys of their decadent distortions, and to the hilltops and plains where the frigid air became part of his chiseled, nonchalant expression. His cruelty, villainy and viciousness guarded the Siberian realm, shielded the iniquitous, preserved the sin of their righteous persecutions, defended their unholy creed, the ruthless scars of their heinous, heathen motives. He was the severe clarity of their strength, the dominion of power, the sacrifice of feeling, the ardor, the wake, the fervor and vehemence of supremacy, acrimony and debauchery – and wouldn’t let another roaming soul touch its savage beat.
An unknown scent drifted into the shadows of his persecution, clipped by the chilling air, wafting and wallowing along the border of their hollow, hallowed corridors. He followed it, ferocious turmoil slinking, crooning, brewing from his statuesque frame, immorality and primordial peril undulating from his might, along his brawn, across his barbaric muscles. An ethereal relic, a detached, mobile sword with scabbard tossed, Deimos maneuvered along the threshold of his land and promised hedonistic elation, allured danger and finessed forbidding, an undying, immoral, irrepressible, irresistible monster. Enticement in the boughs of demise and isolation, minatory, sinister terror, the overwhelming veil of harboring strife, craving sedition, ferocious, argent authority. He strangled the cold, unrelenting air with his own archaic, nefarious influence, felt the living creatures of the earth burying their heads in fresh soil, hiding their roots from his raptorial predilection. He found the stranger nestled amongst the grass, bestowed with some strange little creature, and melded, fused, his soul to the tundra’s expanse, became the disappearing snow, the ice, the cold, remorseless ether. His diabolical stare glanced back upon the fellow gray, chiseled the slightest bit of wonder amongst his curious mind, for some strange awareness had settled there – in the stance of his frame, in the stature of his figure, the outsider could have been marked as familiar. Deimos dismissed it soon after, hastened his inquisitive membrane to some other rune of unholy pursuits and fixated his countenance back into indifference, insouciant and apathetic; living stone. He didn’t spare another glance upon the pup, but allowed the vivid violence of his stare to be rendered completely on the newcomer. The cold-blooded cadence of his voice ruptured from his throat, rough, grating and demanding, a commanded inquiry that held the frightening reverie of an unrelenting, heartless behemoth. “Present the reason for your trespass.”
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