The tricksters way | Africa,Open

[OPEN] The tricksters way | Africa,Open

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527

Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5

Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB

Heather

05-08-2013, 04:12 PM

Their minds must have been filled with bulbous ignorance, covered, lined and lacquered with cheap filaments of brain tissue and matter, fostered and fastened by nothing but the need to survive, but lacking the means to achieve it. Common sense thrown to the scattered winds, never enlightened, never bestowed, all to be tossed into the world of idiocy, decay, and the inane. How did the inept continue to exist, basking in the glow of cluelessness, lost and wanton to the sights, the sounds, the taste, the touch, of intelligence? What carried them onwards, and why? Were they not useless little cretins, filling kingdoms to the brim with weakness, with foul, disgusting, feebleness, too weak, too idiotic, too hampered and spoilt by the infirmity of their entitled decadence to think for themselves? He stared down the length of the mare and found naught; another pathetic waltz of life destined to knock upon their door, to ask, chide and chime for something they didn’t deserve, for a reckoning they were about to receive. She was a heathen display of frailty and imbeciles, and the callous, cold friction of his meticulous calculations only fed upon her waving debility. How quickly could he torch her flesh? How swiftly could he maim her bones? How would it feel to tarnish the last spit of air that quivered from her lungs, brazen, burned and scorched? How would her body fall to the earth, just as empty, just as vast, just as desolate as her cranium? Would the earth swallow her whole, consume the rotten chords of her silly, capricious sinew? Or would she decompose in the merciless, ruthless scheme of their swallowing wreckage and ruin, cleverly seduced into ruin? His eyes, chilling, sinister bearings, seized her stare and vividly portrayed the heinous distinction of his raw, unholy candor, brutality possessed, apathetic, insouciant anarchy, acrimony, vehemence in the shades of her fatuous splendor. Was it racism to abhor idiots? The crushing weight of his vocals, incensed, fueled, tainted, by the foolish distinction of her claims, grated into a hollow, discordant sound. “No. We loathe trespassers.” They ended on a hiss, a sibilant, grinding, viperous tilt that threatened with each pounding note, with each fractious chord. As she ambled, proceeding with that high and mighty air he felt his muscles contort, composition remaining taut, indifferent, with the hushed requiem of his devil’s outcry simmering and boiling amongst his veins. He’d slash her head off to simply cease her flailing tongue.

“I do not care.” The last sentiments rolled on a growl, the feverish, incensed timbre of a fire brimming toward rampant sin tucked in the boughs of their frigid, bestial monstrosity, looming across the surface of antagonistic fervor, beating, bleeding, a clamorous requiem of debauchery and annihilation. Bedlam coiled, embroiled, the helix scheme and distortion of supremacy; it kindled, ravenous and devouring, clinging, clawing, unforgiving, oppressing, cherishing and consuming. Fellow pariahs melted and molded into savage sinew, swiveling the vicious chest of endless carnage, of unholy possession, of imperial poise and prose; he felt the world beat against his daggers in a staccato rhythm of mercy, begging, breathing, ushering the whimsical tides of a enigmatic lament – despondency and melancholy ignored. The edge seared into their lungs, into their muscles, tempting, beguiling, alluring, the fingers of cloistered immorality springing into the tumultuous siege of heathen brushstrokes, alight, ignited, finessed into the wicked clamor of primal treachery. Deimos stepped closer to the mare, the intimidating, oppressive, overwhelming monster, claimed dominance in the perilous juncture of her vapid, dense, nonsensical drama. The nefarious caress of his necromancy flushed, simmered, seared along his skin until it was a damning whisper, the aching, yearning, longing twist and distortion of a hellish creature eager to drive a rapier through the heart of another. His concluding demand, a rough, daunting command, left his persecuting mouth, and he wished, hungered, hankered that she would feel the taste of his magic floating over each word, so that she’d be pierced, damaged, and desecrated; undone, vanquished, gone. “Get out.” Sealed with a promise of bloodshed thereafter – if spurned again by her mindless pursuits.

[Death magic activated and waiting.]

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