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10-18-2015, 06:42 PM
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He waited: a patient, diligent cretin, bent on the presumption of bloodshed. He’d been here before, understood the cycle, had listened to the promises, the oaths, the convictions of Gods, then helped murder the ones who came after, over and over and over again. The miniature fiend might have gone on drifting upon the water, pondering the art of ruin, of disaster, of bedlam, had angry, embittered voice not caused his attention to swing: diverted from the means and measures of mayhem, and onto the toils of other circumstances. He tilted an ear, maneuvered closer to a growing crowd, fixed his observations and scrutiny upon the nestled throng – something about a feather, stolen from a mother or a child…he trickled away from the water, slinking and slithering off his throne, sank upon the shore, and advanced, drawn by the intricacies of barbarity, the structures of chaos. A Pegasus femme dressed in ivory, demanding, begrudging and resentful, a filly begging for her trinket back; and in the center of it all – Him. The scion would recognize him anywhere: though he’d been altered, morphed since their meeting across the frozen arches – bigger, broader, white dragon looming with one more nearby (as if he needed another addition to his oppressive army), but still carrying that same twisted foundation, that same treacherous build, that same hateful, condemning veneer. How many more had he mauled in between their meetings? How many more had he ravaged and savaged and ruined? For feathers? For glory? For bragging rights? All of the prince’s loathing seemed wholly reserved for him - a murderer who slayed gilded children across the outcrops with naught valid reason, no standing point, pretending to be a god when he held no command, no sovereignty, no rule – and he felt the essence of condemnation stirring between his veins, molten and incensed, bestial and barbaric. It was a restless spiral, distorting and unfurling around his throat, within his chest, beating a steady, soulless drum, savage and rapacious, predatory and gleaming, and Orsino hummed along, vicious and cruel, whispering and hissing through their balanced thread, immorality and unholy regard gathered and tethered in one knot after another. He remembered the notion of revenge, the weight it carried, and the solidified savage, sinister boughs hung over his shoulders; and how he’d borne them all for Arwen, over many miles and seasons and memories. He marched, he seethed, he boiled and brewed, stomping over the grounds until he took a place near the winged femme, conjuring a buried menace, a harbored, harpooning vehemence. “You,” he snarled, recalling the fallen frame of his friend, remembering the way her body laid battered, a startling red against a cold, stark, desolate backdrop, gone before he could have ever rescued her, massacred for no reason at all. “He also murders children,” he spoke into the void, into the hollowed reaches of his hate and ardor and abhorrence, pinning one more crime against the beast who seemed intent on picking upon the innocent, upon thriving over those weaker and smaller than he – a heathen of the lowest form, a bully, a tyrant. Tag:: OOC:: |
@Abraham @Zenobia @Vitani
