.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
02-15-2015, 07:19 AM
 Molten and infernal, he presided over his icy wake with sinister supremacy, with demonic dominance, with rotten revolution, and the pattern of his steps marked his callous contortions, marching steadily over the grass, maneuvering straight towards the borders. While his frame infused heresy, clawed and rasped amidst his veins, his bones, his undulating muscles, his features remained indifferent, calm, composed, a devilish structure, an oeuvre to a satanic opus. He pulsed, he pervaded, he surrounded the regime, the empire, with the malicious, abhorrent draw of contempt, for a stranger wandered into their midst, unknown, foolish, and inept: moths to snow instead of flame. It’d happened so many times before that he hardly questioned the amount of ignorant creatures left on this earth; they seemed to multiply like rabbits, flooding the plains with their doofus tendencies and entitled crowns. Perhaps they’d heard of their reputation, the bloodthirsty Basiners, the monsters of the north, the beasts of glaciers and rime. Maybe they’d yearned to see, to explore, to wander into their region, and pretend they escaped unscathed. But their world was no one’s playground, their kingdom was no idiot’s furtive pastime, and if the feral moron dared to tread one more step into their home, there was no promise she’d be able to return to whatever hole she’d crawled out of. Some hadn’t (foolish Sinuhe, basking in her idiocy, some nameless soul he’d dragged across the fringe, unconscious, weakened), forgotten in the midst of treachery and disaster, discarded in the piles of frozen apertures. He approached, intimidating, vehement, reticent features meshed and marbled with the contempt, the loathing, the conspiring of an indignant, irritated King, and if she thought the Sentinels were scary, keeping her a length away from their territory, then she’d truly never heard of him. The Reaper strode beneath one of the metallic guards, blatantly maneuvering directly in front of the grey trespasser, a pressing, menacing, overwhelming presence, uttering one feral, commanding quandary. “Why are you here?”
DEIMOS
delivered from the blast
last from a line of lasts and now the kingdom comes crashing down undone |
image credits
