[Continuation from this thread.]

The prelude and prologue of altered artifices, clambering dins and riotous strings, seditious garrotes, revolutionary gallows, clenched teeth and ruthless discourses hung over the heady, pressing shadows. He proceeded into the thicker rush of hushed corridors, where snippets of conversation could be exalted, unheard, unsung from the ravenous courtyards, from the scenic peaks and stretches of subversive ears. A dais of war erupted other melancholies than the trivial pursuit of bloodshed, campaigns, crusades and victories; he’d paid witness to the shambles and remnants of a Lady torn asunder, awakened by a manic press of asp vitriol, and a mechanic’s gears churning, rusting and broken, clanking and disassembled. Their world spun on change, alterations offered and bestowed in spitting venom, bitterness thrust into slashing scythes, rancor and mania teetering a fine edge, distorting punishments and resolutions into the unholy sentiments of sinister, nefarious divisions. Somehow he’d managed to become the arbiter, ushering the untamed souls into the veils of Stygian discussion, mulling over the former words hissed from Psyche; vexed and exasperated, readily, eagerly, willingly, proclaiming her title to the engineer, Ulrik. Had it been a mere boast, a wrathful jest, an exclamation of her ire, of her repentance, of her dramatics? Or had she pressed the notion down their throats for the trial of the beast, bestowing him a herald, a throne, dominion and sovereignty, to see if he could do better? Could he? Is this what the fellow infidel wished for, finally bestowed the chance for upheaval, for change and disorder, chaos brimming in the follies of their passing crusade? Was he capable of assembling their raw, ferocious masses, their barbaric soldiers, their bleeding hearts? What was the lesser of two evils, with both beings recently incapable of finishing their end of duels, skirmishes and invasions? The Reaper didn’t have the answers, and no matter how much he calculated, he couldn’t imagine a steady resolution in sight – in either case, they were to be forced to bow to a creature recently bearing only cowardice, only devotion in words, forgetting actions should reciprocate promises. So the impassive, reticent monster, with his demonic stare, with his coiled machinations, with his unattainable prowess, drew the brutality from prior circumstances, concocted the callous art of his cruelty, polished raw, potent candor upon the licentious Lady. Annihilation, confirmation and affirmations were necessary, and the ravenous poise of the clustered union only bore imperious, stoic scheming, tense, hostile, fierce anarchy boiling in the moon’s forbidding clarity. “You are granting Ulrik your crown?”

@[Ulrik] @[Psyche]