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.”
|
[PRIVATE] There's a crosshair locked on my heart
|
|||
06-07-2015, 06:50 AM
| |||
« Next Oldest | Next Newest »
|