Deimos had become molten again, the ruthless, diabolical, serrated pariah. Quiet for too long, snagged and snarled in the pinnacle of quiet, perilous clarity, he claimed Lucifer’s majestic creation, drove onslaughts, terrors, and devastations from the muted tapestries of their corporeal convictions. From silence came fatal subterfuge crooning over latent, listless lands with a perennial rapier, toiling, travailing until he was naught more than heinous and ferocious blends invigorating the senses towards subtle annihilation. Unholy, carnivore splendor, a breath of rampant decadence, a siege of immoral corruption, trapped and twisted in the Tartarean rapture of his latest conquer, the clarity of severity, the smoldering havoc. Undulating, argent sinew entangled innate enmity, held entropy in his sumptuous, seething grasp, bestial temptation, wild, feral allure, and the rapacious abhorrence slinked, coiled, in his heart – for he was naught more than the muted, taciturn credence of a silken predator; a masterpiece, a poet’s savage, wild prose. He’d committed insurrection and sedition once more, heard it sung from the trenchant depths of his raptorial predilection, allowed it to scar, pierce, perforate monstrous divinations, consume, harpoon and harbor the callous, heartless whims of deplorable treacheries. He’d scoured the resolute walls, the festering, brooding parlors, the meticulous immersion of serpentine gestures, and found a victim poised for slaughter. Any other being, who’d been damned by abduction before, may have felt the slip of a seraphic conscience nettle at their mind, touch upon their soul, scrape against their lungs, but here, he cut, slashed, rasped, and bludgeoned; too demonized, too callous, too much of the writhing, wrathful wraith. A day of iniquity, of calamity, of acerbic, mordant embraces of the reaper, the grim, the distorted, had contorted around his calculating, seditious splendor; thereafter, there had been no escape from the searing acrimony of his brutal diligence. Plucked from the reaches of virtue, burnt by the convictions of his own blunders, the newest prisoner had been selected by word of mouth, by the taste of irritation and vexation, for the rumored annoyance of his inane pursuits. A creed, fostered by menacing opulence, had slipped into the rafters of deplorable, derisive splendor, made harmonious raptures and reveries into the villainous twist of oubliettes and catacombs. For the Plague, he’d reached from behind the veil and with specious, carnivore allure, stole the whims of a foolish existence, brought it to settle amongst the runes of its prison. His lips parted, strung one word together amidst the chilly quietude. Statuesque immorality sang the impassive, nonchalant features of his stoic countenance, rendered them unattainable in the haunting, horrible grandeur. “Azzaron.” He granted him an acknowledged existence, a wicked, corrupt trap, profane and evil in the predacious art and oeuvre of catastrophe, and the world found the gilded creature to be caught, entangled, and ensnared into ominous, menacing misfortune. Death bestowed the forbidding, the sinister, and the frightening hymns of a nettled pestilence.