Iron and intimidation into hedonistic sinew, fostered by demonic art, entangled with Tartarean guile, immersed in the statuesque threads of a depraved, nefarious heathen, he stood upon the threshold of winter and further chilled its core. His primordial treachery, his simmering, argent domination, his distorted, contorted puissance could not wither, could not decay, poised over the dominion of his Stygian heart, poised in annihilation, prosed in supremacy. The curse of his bounty was a noxious, lethal gift, a bestowing of Mephistophealean artifice, woven into the tresses of his silver skin, sliding amongst the rows of sin. Even now, his piercing eyes ghosted over the ruins of the Pegasus mare, scorched and punctured, harpooned and ruptured, until there was nothing but the carnage of her soul gleaming amongst the pale. The subjects of his allegiance, that damned insurrection that chiseled him into further villainy, into rapturous, heinous glory, had toyed with her, lacquered any looming finery, any warbling trill into a requiem, into a dirge. What storms are you chasing now? Did she croon for salvation? Did she weep for humanity? Did she cry for preservation from the depths of remaining divinities? She wouldn’t find it here, not in the unholy, godless, callous, inhumane and barbarous reels of his chaotic splendor, of his decadent grandeur, of his merciless, rancorous palisade. The detachment, the isolation, the seclusion, of his ethereal entity refused to warrant her any benevolence; not a shred of virtue was left within his skeleton of pernicious, presaged danger, and his ruthless, overwhelming prowess fed the reticence, the recherché, the heedless, corrupted chisel of motions, of movements, coiled, taut muscles posturing their wretched scorn. Deimos, a word christened into terror and fear, would not allow her to leave.
He combed the shadows until her motions suggested a frantic, deluded escape was in her mind. The panic, the trepidation, and the apprehension in her gaze rendered her decision clear, an imprudent cry of a weakened, dying catch, where anxiety settled into their minds and sought an alternative to the pain, but always ended in the claws and canines of their hunter. He wasn’t about to let his prey wander from the confines of her dungeon, flee into the night, run towards a safe, secure homeland. She was quarry, chosen for a specific purpose, and to allow his labor sundered would be foolish and vacuous. Carnivore predilection, immoral calamity sung from pariah hooves, slipped from the veil of shadows and haunted the breath of her desires, of her motivations, of the will to separate from captors and a dingy, cold oubliette. His monstrous, behemoth allure brought forth his daunting, disquieting, and hushed frame, standing feet away from her, adrift in the ice, home in the perilous world of Siberian interludes and predacious rapture. Not a single word was uttered past his lips, but the rapier blade of his stare, of his might, of his power, of his menace whispered through the wind, passing along her ears, lacerating her dreams and aspirations. There is no hope for you here.
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