Fervent derision solidified, venomous rapture enamored, the malignant, vicious essence of entropy sunken deep into his blood, pouring into ruthless fixations, into brutal, barbaric absolutions, for he’d sullied her, a cretin, a creature, that eternally preyed on his masses. A carnivore’s amore, a predator’s satisfaction: victory gleamed, conquest pulsed, triumph pervaded – lacquered, enameled, and slashed into the foils of his Mephistophelean decree. It solidified in his gaping wounds, it manifested in his sinister gait, and it tumbled like a vehement stone in his menacing, malicious slither, sinuous and unnerving. A bloody ghost, an ichor wraith, a rapacious phantom fanned and waned amidst his turbulent, wounded pathway, sullied, blemished, blotched and blighted from his heartless skirmish, flourishing in the primrose wiles of bellicose deliverance. Rotten and withering, he dragged his soul up the summer fields and the Tallsun vestiges, cloaked and choked in nefarious dismissal, forgoing the censure of his limbs, of resting, for the sole pursuit, for the persistent conviction, of returning home, of hailing his supremacy, of drenching the world in dominance. Finessed in forbidding, regaled and compressed into a seething maelstrom, a pariah to the simmering condemnation of an enemy, he was an unholy fervor on the brink of winter’s desecration, leaning into the chilling wind, the hallowed hail, the avaricious toils of his bestial potency. Treacherous considerations lavished and absolved into abhorrent chords, violence sung and devoured, discord harbored and languished, until he was naught more than a fiendish incantation thread and woven beneath the sentinels’ banners. For a moment, the monster simply leaned against one of the machines, a broken, satanic opus, breath curling in a feverish melancholy, in disjointed credence, murmuring primordial iniquity while spinning infection in a vile, deplorable web. His mind concocted heedless ire and smoldering decrees, his immorality conjured and composed enigmatic twists and turns, and the hollowed shambles of his heart craved more serrated blades, more anarchy, more sedition. Perhaps he’d haunt her until the end of her days, turn the tide, the tables, on a faltering regime, on a crumbling empire. Let her come, let her try, let her wail, let her cry – because he’d taken something of hers, like she’d done to them so many times before.

Would it be the last time she tried? Or just an endless cycle, rippling and unwinding, more and more threads of fate until scissors cut the snagged lines?

He sighed; the bitter, tired, frayed breaths mingled in the hazy, sultry air, carried febrile friction as he traced and sketched faltering strides. The Lord chiseled one annihilating bellow, allowing it to surround the rigid borders of his dominion, scattering the tales of vanquishing in howling, reticent sabers, humming in aching gallows, in devouring spoils. He’d consumed, he’d devoured, he’d condemned, and perhaps they could share in this stained, deplorable affair – laugh at bedlam, chuckle at destruction. For as he stood, swaying with the wind, teeth chattering in freakish, odd chills, upright only due to heinous determination, there, at his feet, lay Confutatis’ bone armor, claimed, stolen, theirs.

[Just posting a healing/celebratory thread. Will be coming with Lena shortly. ^_^]

A V I Y A
Woman king, sword in hand, swing at some evil and bleed