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06-22-2014, 05:52 AM
Illynx’s arrival preempted the decision; drunken, stupored caterwauling and forced apologies. The earth held an intriguing juxtaposition: how odd that the Basin was more willing to offer sentiments and regards than other herds. When had they become the chiseled sedition, the revolting, wretched demons, and open arms? They’d prospered and bestowed information, of toppling fortifications, of other beasts crawling, slinking, lingering, awaiting the opportunity to manifest ruin; and received naught in return. He nearly snorted at the ineptitude, but surmised at the reasons beyond. Even when brought forth in gifts of intellect and muddled plots, the world didn’t receive or trust them (and what bothered him more: the crude reality that sovereigns would forever turn their back on their souls, that they’d stay encased, locked in their icy dungeons for eternity, or that every persevering step they made was somehow always overturned?). They’d sprung too many battles, too many irreverent spreads and mutinies (once, to keep their land, another, to take back lost children and simultaneous absconding of sands and soot). While he was built for warfare, for armaments, for brutality, for quick, swift scythes bludgeoning, massacres, and dying notes, not politics, not diplomacy, he was irked by the notion that even when dealt a keen hand, they received nothing for their (isn’t that what prompted some wars, sieges, and crusades – the odd cards, the flailing nooses, the withered, cloistered of minds, punishment turned to rash idiocy, vengeance on mauled lacquer?) The reticent edge of his features gave away none of these ruminations; sentiments built layer upon layer of primed indifference, when all the movements, the motions, the framework of his existence remained polished for the snow, the ice, the chilling, acerbic winds. Still poised as if cast from marble, from stone, from menacing conjectures and iniquitous intervals, The Reaper didn’t raise his blade, but frustrations bellowed deep in his core, desperate to be flayed and contorted. Instead of chasing them into the distance, instead of brutalizing them or pervading the world with his quietus essence, he remained stoic, still, a toxin of danger and treachery as the poisonous depths flowed through his vocals in a single sound. “Disappointing.”
