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05-26-2013, 09:17 PM
Demonchild wanders through the snow, marking the world that he sees and taking it captive as memory and guile. This world means little to him in the context of the Hell he has foreseen, and yet it is all that might bear meaning in this world, destructive and cruel with a dazzling brilliance all of its own. He keeps it his prisoner, chained to the behemoth's tongue and the back of his eyes, and disregards it in the same breath, caring only for the opportunity to claim more as his own. He is an emperor in mahogany and grey, a silver memory of times long ago, when gods ran wild upon the wretched shores and the world was governed by angels and their spawn. Now he thinks he may be the last angel, a lonely remnant of an empire cast down long ago, the final offspring of Cinnoru the Serpent Tongue, though his mother claims there may be more. Should he seek to find them, rumor whispers with demonic laughs, this is where his journey must continue. He stands upon the cusp of falling into an abyss, the edge of the new world wedged firmly under cloven hooves. The elegant tassel of an abomination's leonine tail rests in still, total still, upon the border between here and there; he wonders if the angels will come to cast him out, or welcome his tortured heart into their arms, a mighty god come to grace them with his glorious purpose and divine intent. Yea, he holds no thoughts of unforgiving rejection, no terror that they may not love him- fools, they would be, and the sting would not be his. Wind whistles an eerie tune and heterochromatic eyes blink a slow and lazy fall. Patience, this is a virtue of the horned beast, patience and the merciful lack of any emotional deliverance to subdue the weight of his mind. He will stand a sentinel until heavens collapse, an archangel sent to deliver the wrath of his gods and the message of his devil upon the deserving, the unicorns, the waiting creatures of this abysmal earth. [ getting back into the swing of him, next one will be better ] |
