Deimos was not born with a serpent tongue, full of policies, daggers and lies. For some stretch of days his mouth wouldn’t move at all, silenced and unsung, hushed and muted in the dim, blighted, plagued shadows. He was not carved for diplomacy or foreign affairs, couldn’t find the purpose of sequestering himself in the chambers of ambassadors and couriers, pouring over letters written in deceitful ink. His talents, his aptitude, his finesse, laid amongst the crueler fixtures of the earth, the dust, the demise, worn swords and shambled shields, the devil’s outcry for war and the bludgeoning of enemies. He didn’t play the charade of an consul, he didn’t echo the sentiments of the world’s polite uncertainties, he didn’t position himself into the miming dance of monarchs and sovereigns; he ran rampant across shadow and ruin, blinding, scarring, ripping and tearing. Amongst the gathered brethren, the kin of guile, bluffs and pretenses, he should have been lost, searching for a line that would never be tossed his way. He was not the sinuous charmer, he was not the argent lure, the charismatic spectacle woven into segments of entangled fabrications, but he listened and stole, plucked and scattered the syllables and speech of the inept, ivory mare. In her careful words were the measures of violence, were the promises of bloodshed, were the discrete caricatures of a contract. Were they to be allied with this fool and all her other dullards? Were they to be shifted and maligned to the will of this creature and her sibling? Were they to be ensnared and entangled, misshaped until their hate, their malice, their menace, was naught but a fine line, driven by particulars instead of determination? His punctured, piercing stare remained solely focused upon Ophelia, the sharpened grate of his voice spilling across the air - for once, the General had something to say. “Fixed lines for a indefinite horizon.” He paused, turned once to stare upon the asp Psyche, pondering if perhaps, she would enjoy them embarking upon a road with this sap, with all their wonders and gems and designs, forgetting the purpose of their own goals, ambitions and strife. Then, as impassive as before, he swung his carved features back towards the other. “And if we choose to assault instead of loiter?” What more would they have to pay to see their prestige written across sand, across land, across the open seas, gathered in wreckage and demolition? How long would it be until they triumphed?
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
⇒
[O] Confirmation [Roland/Arah/Archi/Psyche + others]
