the Rift


[PRIVATE] There's a crosshair locked on my heart

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB
Heather
#1

Deimos the Reaper

You bring death to all that you touch

Infernal indignation, bestial temptation, a raptorial predilection swallowing and consuming the consumption of wild, feral decadence: and were he annihilating a stranger at his borders, he may have unleashed every untamed, every savage, every sinister fold of his glacial severity upon the foolish interloper. But he was trapped and cornered by the leagues of his own Impersonator, a femme who’d proven herself time and time again, who’d been taken and absconded with her children, who’d been a martyr’s breath and a macabre chord – seeking to drive a spear through his chest. The notion, the spell, the beguiling torrent, hurt more than he wished to acknowledge, so he clasped hold of the blade buried in his torso, dared not pull it away; infused every beat of his satanic ritual, of his Stygian mayhem, of his arcane calamity, to overcome the deplorable treachery spreading through his veins. Her insurrection, her sedition, was a blinding, aching, hollow thing, pushing and pulling at his enamel, twisting it sideways and upwards, and beneath all he felt was the distinct isolation, the cruel, unrelenting position of abandonment – but none of it showed on his face, on his features, too aligned, too rigid, too taut, made for formidable menace, polished for Lucifer’s majestic creations, the molten rasp of danger, the burning, scalding lacerations of the devil; the mordant embrace of the Reaper, acerbic caresses, insouciant strokes of a heathen’s cutlass. He blended through the disembarking crowd, carved carnivore steps and precision towards the cave where the two had disappeared, away from the prying eyes, away from the defensive beings, away from the spellbound, rancorous gathering. The penetrating barb of his gaze landed on their forms as he stepped before the aperture, a shadow blocking out the last hints of light, statuesque immorality basking in the eaves of severe clarity, of seething, scalding animosity coiling just beneath his lungs, yearning to unwind along his throat. Where he hadn’t longed to implore devastation upon their hides amidst throngs of cretins and infidels, naught held him back now: the cold, chilling accord filtered through his monstrous calculations, through his earnest mouth, disappointment echoing and bounding off their muted, taciturn components. He didn’t want to lose either of them, but they couldn’t run away from their accusations. The infidel was chained all over again, shackled to the floor of their armaments – and he couldn’t tell either of them how much it hurt, straining against the ties, the manacles. “It is cowardly to denounce your leaders, then flee before a response. It is shameful to be bitter about another’s success. I expected more from you, Arah.”

Kind, gentle Arah, who’d always been hospitable, who’d always been amiable, who’d watched him nearly murder an intruder and not say a word, suddenly a banshee, a crone, a witch brandishing daggers and stilettos had been difficult to surmise – but then, he had to wonder, how many others of his treacherous troupe had long since buried parts of themselves amidst the Siberian threshold? How long had she yearned for a title, a crown? Why had she made no claim to it, before now? How was he to know if she never expressed her wishes? Why didn’t she challenge for her reign? Why didn’t she press her desires into conduct and deeds, instead of spurn others who’d worked just as hard? The beast’s tone still held its nefarious, rigorous prose, continued along the shadows on the walls and simmered on the harbored strife, wondering what was to become of all of them as he matched his words to her accusations. “Longevity only has some claim – and even then, there are others who came before you.” Some from the days of refugees, huddled in the snow and brine, still remained, he gestured towards Ulrik in an impending nod, remembered Lena before her sweet songs, recalled d’Art before Kou had been murdered.

The monster was forced to administer more and more discourse, stifled on the difficult pattern, attempted to sink and immerse himself in the rituals of social ties, but the silence grew before he could partake in its essence again: drawing it closer to his discarded presence, to his vocals, roughening the tenor with particular convictions. He didn’t throw the Forsaken’s name into the mix, didn’t say both newfound leaders had been recommended to him, didn’t proclaim that Arah’s name was never mentioned, and took the perilous rapier dangling over his head. “They ascended due to action. Hotaru assisted in orchestrating the invasion of the Falls. Thranduil has revitalized our sleuths.” There were other accreditations to their merits (Confutatis' stolen hide, Midas clinging to the wings of the ice before his death, Oxy's carcass awaiting its fate), but he ceased there, deemed them enough. His lacerating gaze sought out Arah’s, stared, bent over heinous veils and fatal cloaks. “I will never discount your merits or contributions to this herd. But, you should not compromise yourself by condemning those who will serve you.”

Then, he bridged a gap, offered a demand, and wasn’t sure how to extend one any further. “Thranduil will apologize for his remarks.”

Lost to the wicked paradigms, to all these shifts, to all the needless, extraneous drama, his eyes flickered over both characters, to those who’d made themselves pariahs amidst a clan of outcasts, and still felt the sting of Arah’s sword lodged in his chest. “Is there anything else you wish to say?” In what other ways have I failed you?

@[Arah] @[Ulrik]

image credits


Forum Jump:


RPGfix Equi-venture