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01-09-2016, 06:35 PM
 Success crooned in his skull; a keen, blunt tone of triumph and conquest. He’d completed his goal – it resounded in his head, it thrummed in his blood, it hummed in his soul (somehow, someway, he’d managed to do something beneficial for his empire, and no blood had been shed). The Reaper had funneled past his flaws, his defects, his weaknesses, and channeled them into imperious recherché, into ravenous reticence, and into coalitions. He remained the stoic, stalwart sentinel, a piece of marble, a shard of porcelain, a statue of death and damnation, listening to the responses, to the replies, and trying very hard not to chisel a thin smile through his lips. Instead, the demon christened an amiable nod, an agreeable torrent of movement and motion, driving past all the onslaughts, all the haunting, poignant, dissonant airs, to reclaim a contorting, powerful emblem of his own creation, of his own enigmatic, feral soul. “You have the Basin’s allegiance.”
Meticulous predilection gleamed in his nefarious, cold-blooded heart, and a brutal shade of scrutiny, study, examination bloomed along his heretical stare, but he said naught more on the common sways of unholy regard, of the power looming in his bludgeoned derision, scaling past the remorseless, the predacious, the infinite decadence of his lack of diplomacy – reaching past all the snares, all the traps, all the lairs, to answer the giant’s inquiry. “We have a single pest.” Some Pegasus attempting to snag and poke and prod where he didn’t belong, some wayfaring infidel who thought he possess guile and intellect, some flying beast who’d eventually be felled by the wrath of those carved from mountains and ice. “A Pegasus – gray and white. He enjoys thievery.” But he would have his due in the same way all the Basin enemies did: with chilling, noxious blood, spilled across parlors and floors and trappings and tethers, solidified in annihilation and savagery. The inept fool would be locked away eventually, rotting and withering, never to be seen again. “Does the Edge have any adversaries?” He asked without sinuous, unwinding, ravenous coils, but the dagger, the sword, the cutlass was there, a rapier gathered in the midst and moors. The offer, the bestowal, rested on the table, eager and ardent, a malicious, vibrant heathen – constantly scorned, constantly damned, but constantly willing for brutality, for domination, for writhing, wrathful inclinations. The winter Lord’s brows arched at Elsa’s response, and then there seemed to be nothing more – acceptance through days and seasons and eons of war – carried on the back of matching crusades and horrendous campaigns. Contemplation awakened in his brow at the rest of Tembovu’s speech, because here he thought he might be able to advance the Crafters and Menders’ ambitions. “Our healers intend to build a greenhouse, and will require glass for the project. Perhaps our Weavers could create something for you in turn.” What the Edge needed, wanted, craved, or yearned, was beyond his sentiments. DEIMOS
delivered from the blast
last from a line of lasts and now the kingdom comes crashing down undone |
image credits
@Tembovu
@Elsa
