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11-22-2012, 03:35 PM
Authority, sovereignty, control; it contorted rigidly in their veins, a rancorous, brewing enchantment, scarring and scorching, livid, incensed, distorted to shambles in the wake of nothingness. Where were their infernal hearts now, silent, hushed, brambles of coiling, intrepid beasts? Where did they plunge, where did they strike, where did the glowing pride of their aspirations slink? Where was the promised havoc, the savage recoil? Where were the illustrious, heralded machinations? The lavished opulence, the bestial chords, had been rendered incomplete, broken, barbed things left to wither and decay with the passing breeze, the listless, latent air. The clamor, the din, sung lifelessly on the hymns of the wicked, of the requiems of the iniquitous, sullied, stolen and absconded. So he too was silent, this wandering, wayfaring Deimos, left to haunt the chilling corridors of his rapier brutality, of his soundless, treacherous wake, offering naught but the intangible twist of his sullen, lethal presence. Striking against the midnight coils, he varnished the world of white, ivory and silence with the treacherous bow of his perilous wake, rendering life immobile, tainting, corrupting, and devouring. Even now, in the heathen contortions of the Threshold, he bent against the fanciful nature of divinity and lacquered the realm with distortions – mayhem, melancholy, heedless, callous disregard, calamity itching across his skin, pouring across his veins, mayhem just a breath away. As he stole, absconded and demolished, he came upon the greeting of newcomers, the siege of strangers. Noting the hush, the lull, his head tipped towards the horned beast the two others, of little significance to him, conversed with. Swords, brindle – but, was he of their righteous creed? Could he bear arms against the wanton, against the plain, against the sky? He offered the unknown one chance, a solid command born from parted, heinous lips. "If you value supremacy, follow me.”
