The renditions of pleas fell on deaf ears, a wail, a howl, a moan of frustration that obliterated, festered and fed the withered halls of a desolate, forlorn sovereignty. Indifference swung from the idle hands of the Siberian dusk, hallowed and carnivorous, apathy and nonchalance simmering over the warbling laments of a caged foe, plucked, discarded, forgotten amongst the rancorous, treacherous pathways of satanic finesse. There was naught to save him in the haunted, looming, hedonistic elation of villainous devils, not the wind, not the cold, not the chill that permeated and entangled in the wisps of ravenous dedication. Chained and locked, held in a wintry oubliette, the prisoner whined to the merciless, remorseless, ardent fiends that burned, corrupted and pierced – winding lacerations of heinous, fierce, feral, rampant decay across the corridors of enigmatic depravity. Azzaron was not shielded from their malice, he was not protected from their nefarious immorality, he was not veiled from the unholy carnage of their antagonistic sedition. He’d wronged, he’d irked, he’d vexed, and with the sinuous, slinking brushstrokes of their meticulous calculations, he’d found himself possessed by supremacy. Should he be rewarded for weakness, for ineptitude, for ignorance and idiocy? Should he be abandoned, liberated, for the distortion of his serenity, for the disturbance of his tranquility? Should they grant him clemency for the allure of danger, for the hostility of his wagging tongue? The answer resounded in the approach of their devouring arrogance, in their overwhelming, eldritch tones, in their taut expressions and haughty maneuvers. No.
Deimos, death and desecration, destruction and demolition, coiled in the demonic clutches of the shadows, watched the flaming beast reach for the skies. He was intrigued, for the moment, at witnessing their prey attempt one last effort of safety, of freedom, of sanctuary from the bedlam he’d incensed. A fly caught in a spider’s web, beating his tired wings, haggard, wretched, exhausted, but so deeply consumed by his race for life. A rabbit, wilting in the seams of leaves, sides quivering, limbs shaking, quivering, hoping his hunter has lost his winding trail. A rat, dangling between the paws of its captor, awaiting a salvation that would never arrive. What was more fascinating – the slow, passionate waltz of a dying animal, lingering in its last, solid breaths, or the quick, sudden, swift, execution, slaughter, of a constant irritation? His movements, methodical, taut, minute motions that spoke of authority, that whispered of control, that crooned of power, reeled into the scene and declared pillaging, the hushed reticent glow of arcane bedlam, ardent friction, the silken thread of heinous discord. A single nod was given to Ulrik, the reasonable engineer, and Descaro, the faithful warrior, before the deep, grating damnation poured from his condemning lips. Simplistic, blunt, the chords of the wicked twisted and turned, spoke nonchalance in the bestial, ethereal ruin of his forbearance. “Then you choose to die.”
Godless, forsaken, renounced, the cold-blooded, acrimonious brushstrokes of Mephistopheles coiled in his lungs, in his veins, in his brutal, callous heart, struck against the land. Intertwining, combining, weaved and spliced into enmity, into the serenade of swinging gallows, into bewitching, spellbinding demise – the breathless whimper of extermination and eradication. It promised torture, it arched detachment, it howled of primordial treachery and arts of unforgiving maelstroms, infernal incantations wrought to paralyze, torment, maim and devastate. Unleashed, it brought forth the ringing glide of despicable, horrible, deplorable depravity caught in the wings of the Basin, aiming to surround, bind, and chain once again, an enveloping veil of violence.
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[O] leaving trails of flames I fly [ESCAPE]
