A taut, rigid dance of control: remorseless daggers and molten scythes, undulating coils, ruminations, speculations of a horrid, wretched serpent, deemed to abscond, doomed to plague, damned to oblivion and harsh, reticent raptures. Satan’s favored warrior, breathing acerbic croons, hedonistic hymns, seeking vengeance, unwinding retribution, harpooning requitals, basking barbarity in infernal venues, diabolical vestiges. Armed with Mephistopheles on both shoulders, driven to the culmination, the extermination, of lives threatening to rip apart his sieges, his soldiers, his brethren, sumptuous and scintillating, ferocious friction. Once he’d scalded away the layers, once he’d scorched off the cinders, the embers, the curling, foolish fixations of this enemy, this fool, he’d pluck away the seams of the others – watch and witness a Regime topple to the floor, crumpled, paralyzed, immobilized and incapacitated. Roles reversed and measured in calculating, writhing wrath, beasts and heathens molded from abhorrent stone, demonic art twisted into maelstrom spells and laureate iniquity, smoldering havoc, meticulous, hot grinds of harbored strife; like a blade, like a cutlass, like a rapier, driven to the silent chords of unsung violence. Eager, derisive, fiendish incantations of the anarchic, of the vile, of the stained, deplorable, horrible, searing fervor of hushed, unholy fervor, lacquered in condemnation, contorting, controlling, every miniscule moment, drenching the earth, the prison cavern, into indiscernible hazes – features too impassive, save for the blue eyes of bedlam piercing, puncturing, the minatory enticement of a captive on the riches of decadence. Whining, pouting, whimpering and yowling for a savior, with no one to answer but the inaudible howl of death’s door opening, humming in the sweltering, nefarious gallows, sweeping past the chilling, sinister wake of terror’s opulence. He couldn’t remember any creature less deserving for liberation, listened to the callous silence flow through like an open, gaping, festering wound, already warning, beckoning, reaching as a siren wail, for an artful demise. Like a feral, untamed ghost, he proceeded closer and closer, consuming, devouring, swallowing in the desolate, hollow frame of his impending menace, of his tangible malice, of his treacherous considerations, of the finality of his arcane, vicious, fatal brushstrokes. A knife for a knife, handle in his outstretched hands, augured and portended, indignation rising to slash, to beat, to cut and flay. They’d ushered the storm, and could only reap their just rewards. Deimos would give them naught else but pain for pain, torture for torture, and the burning, turbulent wasteland of annihilation.

Cold and indifferent, no proclamations were uttered, no words were said, no sounds expressed but the distant sway of the predatory wind, the drumbeat of his hooves slowly advancing, closer and closer, movements of the unforgiving, unfeeling, apathetic and reticent. Then, the pulsing, pervading vehemence increased, an inferno, a conflagration of hate, of contempt of loathing and abominations, smoothly, fluidly, rolling from his avaricious sculpture, retaliation drummed through the beats of wicked invocations, licentious enchantments and demonic deliverance, taking, absconding, stealing final breaths, final heartbeats, final reveries and serenities: death for the inept, death for the ignorant, death to the tyrants who threatened his homeland. The only song he’d ever sing: lyrics and stanzas of violence, animosity and antipathy, toxins of the villainous, of the depraved. Another victim who’d outlived his purpose, who’d drummed sweet details, who’d succumbed to the persecuting swing of an executioner’s precision, lain upon the cavern floor collapsed, fading, dying in the last flickering entrails of his shackles and fetters. Bare satisfaction; contentment for the demise, drenching and aspiring for future persecutions.

[Permission from Aeolle to kill/PP Veil. @[Crash Course] @[Zikar-Sin] @[Arah]