They’d been quiet, drenched and draped in shadows, in subterfuge, in clandestine wires and wares, tapping, slithering, slinking through the undergrowth, the potent entanglements, the rotting core of devastation and upheaval. In some parts, they’d disappeared, gone into the mist and fog, forgoing the creed of pestilence, the reign of terror, for other duties and transgressions, and in other portions, simply died, murdered by the fleeting hands of goddesses and savages. Even he, sinister and chilling, had let them go by the wayside, too distracted and segmented into lordly duties and nefarious protection, wielding calculations and machinations, carving Machiavellian trenches, but not reaching past the furtive glances, the specious fervency, the commanding shackles of politics and vile maneuvers. Now, what the GildedBlade had started had truly been conformed and unwound, the masks and frameworks pieced together, the arms and alms of repose and peace fettered, tied, and tethered with armistices, with crowns belonging to hybrids, with wings gliding in and out, over and under, their mountain regions. Perhaps the questions he should have been asking himself, giving growth to contemptible seeds, to loathing sprouts, to abhorrent saplings, was how far they’d fallen. Had they forgotten their hate, seething in the wiles of absolution and predilection? Had they forgotten their dislike, their discord, their chaos, their bedlam? Or had they merely been scattered apart, lost to the bounty of other ideals, other notions and nuances, changed, altered, and transformed? Even beneath his nonchalant features, always sculpted so carefully, so rigidly, into unyielding contortions and distorted reticence, had he abandoned their creeds, their oaths? What would it be like to savor the molten sentiments of paragons again, where only the horned were triumphant, where only swords dominated the earth, where only cutlasses and rapiers and broad, cutting blades stoked the fires of devastation, of ruin, of destruction? The Plague was supposed to have chiseled might and fear behind closed doors, amidst cloaks and daggers, brewed nightmares and horror stories for demons to revere and innocents to shriek, but all they’d seemed to have done was grow wickedly, desperately, atrociously silent. No dogs of war, no carnivore amore, no predators slinking from behind glass walls or murky, dreadful copses. Their accomplishments, once so proud, once so singular, had evaporated, back into nothingness.

The Reaper remembered his father’s dreams, goals, wishes, and aspirations. He thought of them beneath the summer’s edge of darkness, clattering upon damp soil and shoal, combing the beaches of Isilme in hopes of claiming the land for his brethren. He recalled the deep, sinking hatred for anything and everyone, the nefarious arts and opuses carving a niche into his skull, the embittered tale of his sire’s death, the drummed, imagined massacre of those who’d caused it. He too had been discarded along the way, a General risen to power and thrones and diplomacy, keeping him too occupied, watching over allies, patriots, family, and disciples, thinking little of the shades and veils that had led him down the same path.

So, the beast wandered, allowing the formation of his intimidating prowess, his fixating, alluring stature to breathe unholy armaments through the shards of moonlight, through the thickening shadows, through the harpooning remnants of a time long since past. He hissed drums and drones, pulsed and pervaded wild, barbaric summons, feasted his eyes on brethren who had once answered the same calls, pondered if they’d follow the old ways again. He traversed through thickets and boughs, knelt beneath pine and fir arms, christened and anointed the fabric of their timeless enmity amongst the embroiled woods, alongside the embittered tundra, and yearned for them to become emboldened again. Only after the monster had delivered, extended, bestowed, and proffered the laden invitations, the furtive beckons, did he slink down the solemn road of antipathy all over again, the malicious, bestial composition of a man coated, flanked, and garbed in determination, in danger, in odious, meticulous armaments. He traversed into their tent, lifted the flap to enter its confines, then turned and twisted his skull to look out upon the vast, isolated countryside, peering with a piercing stare to see who would arrive. How many were left? How many would fight? How many were still interested in the chronicles of violence and vigilance, of power and corruption, of terror and chaos?

Or had that world fled, taken over by a new one, and he was just too stubborn, too rancorous, to catch up?

[Plague meeting. ^_^ Please only attend if you’re a current Plague member or interested in becoming one. We’ll be discussing things within the tent.]