A ferocious inferno embarked along the stretches of his empire, stoked and raked the coals, the embers, the fire building and brewing along portended onslaughts and ambitious triumphs, vanquishing, exterminating. It built and brewed, foamed and frothed, burst and devoured, condemned and swallowed, arched, curved, crooked amongst the loathing munitions and the cold-blooded malevolence of his creed. Motives were clear, concise, succinct, etched in Machiavellian design, executed in chilling prowess. More and more, the beasts of his sovereignty needed to be trained, finessed, poised and prosed for persecution, for triumph, for victory, for the taste, the relish, the savoring, had never been on their tongues. Did they deserve it, the piercing, the lacerating, the rancorous reverie and rapture of annihilation? Perhaps glory had simmered beyond their veins and into entrails of absolution once, twice, but not as a whole, as vicious pedestals or vehement deliverance, a claim, a rally, or a declaration of conquest. They faltered too often, failed too easily, crumbled and stumbled upon too many pathways, and the ire, the wrath, the fortitude and might stored within him sought to relief them of all these foolish junctures. What is a herd composed, constructed, molded and sculpted from loathing and condemnation, but incapable of bearing those arms upon the masses? What was the worth of wrath, when it’s fuel, its infernal decrees, its sinful, nefarious, unholy barbs only lacerated and punctured so far? What is an empire but its weakest thread, snapped by the smallest snares and shears?
The Reaper, the monster, the heathen, the northern King, could bear deficiency no longer.
He wasted no time, seeking the soldiers, the combatants, willing to wear their shields and flaunt their swords against their leader. Training coupled and combined with fluent, limber movements, acrimonious bloodshed, fed the restless coils of opponents and adversaries, and he leant his loyalty, his trust, his devotion into their own savage, unrelenting souls. An unspoken agreement, respect and reverence, honor and justification that he would not slaughter – he would take, scrape, undermine and twist, but not maim, disrepair, maul and mutilate (no matter what the GildedBlade thought; had he cultivated the desire to steal the last beat of her heart, the final breath from her lungs, he could have snatched it in quick, feral strokes).
The infidel chose familiar surroundings, the grasp and rime of their Aurora Basin, midnight and nocturnal, the moon reflecting off the lake, the gathering snow. Deimos’ cold stare fixated upon the unrelenting water before him, clear, crisp, not held by autumns’ threads, refusing to freeze beneath the Siberian, glacial hold. His combatant for the evening, Torleik, was still a relative unknown to him, recruited by Ulrik and himself, but otherwise, he knew naught of his motivations (beyond his speech at the meeting, professing an inclination towards the General rank). Perhaps, in his calculating ire, in his satanic, Tartarean guile, he’d be able to grasp and grip further aspirations from the bearded soldier, learn, study, examine, investigate, the ambitions of another. Surely, Torleik knew his.
The Lord swiveled his cranium towards the other individual, and his frame hummed, pulsed, beat with the lively crescendo of an impending clarity, a portended, augured potency. Jaws parted to utter one command, to grant freedom and heresy upon the soldier, releasing the chains. “Go.”
[Traditional training spar. Intro post – 548 words. 0/3 + 0/1 magic used.
I’ll be making OOC comments after Torleik’s first post. :D
Setting: Orangemoon, Aurora Basin. Yards away from the unfreezing lake. Midnight, cold, clear, moon reflecting off of lake and snow.
You have first move!
Edited: Please pause this training spar due to Basin's General Tournament. We can resume it once the latter commences. Thank you! :) ]
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Our armour all as strong, our cause the best [Training Spar]
