Rampant decadence tucked in the boughs of their frigid, bestial monstrosity, looming across the surface of antagonistic fervor, beating, bleeding, a clamorous requiem of debauchery and annihilation. Anarchy coiled, embroiled, the helix scheme and distortion of supremacy; it incensed, ravenous and devouring, clinging, clawing, unforgiving, oppressing, cherishing and consuming. The pariahs melted and molded into heinous sinew, swiveling the vicious chest of endless carnage, of unholy possession, of imperial poise and prose; he felt the world beat against his daggers in a staccato rhythm of mercy, begging, breathing, ushering the whimsical tides of a enigmatic lament – despondency and melancholy ignored. The edge seared into their lungs, into their muscles, tempting, beguiling, alluring, the fingers of cloistered immorality springing into the tumultuous siege of heathen brushstrokes, alight, ignited, finessed into the wicked clamor of primal treachery. How destitute the world would become underneath their hooves, shrieking, mournful cries echoing from the enveloping chambers of narrowed hallways, gallows set up for the weak, the delicate, reeling from the loss of their hearts. He, pariah and revolutionary, the seditious, subversive, mutinous, watched and witnessed the ferocious, feral indignation seize damnation within its fist, become hungry, ravenous, famished, want, need, yearn, more and more, the unforgiving, severe clarity of titans, of behemoths, of monsters. Already forsaken, he marched ahead of the minatory militia, of the minutemen, domination and ascendancy, the silent, hushed arrogance, the arched detachment, the nefarious plunge of Tartarean art, demonic canvas, unholy insurrection. He’d pierce, perform, another act of terror, devastation, danger, scintillating bedlam brewing in the primitive enmity of his enigmatic, feral soul. Brutality, menacing and savage, woven so precariously into his bloodstream, bent another absolution of malice into the corridors, trenchant ascendancy.

He swung into shadow, reclaimed its Stygian airs as it clung to his darkened pelt, a coat of damnation he never relinquished or released. His movements were sinuous and winding, the wandering, wayfaring glide of nefarious serpents, of guiled, infernal demons, stroking the ground with the power to obliterate the capricious fancies of the realm. He held no true purpose to his travels, a common hymn he rendered in childhood, scarring and destroying the pathways of merchants and men, offering naught but the finery of his dissonant tranquility. Here too, in the dusk of the Threshold, he bestowed little but the infinite heresy of his creation, his terrible, piercing gaze locking onto the silvern mare, rough in the pale light, and the glass-sworded D’Artagnan, as he arrived in an interval of meticulous predilection. Was this yet another creature to chime away to their plains of predacious grandeur and remorseless acrimony? What did she have to provide besides the scorn, the loathing, and the contempt? What more? He tilted his head, silent in study, still ethereal, still brilliantly damning in the harsh grate of naught. He allowed the Mender to be the diplomatic greeter, harken salutations, for detachment and impassivity had molded itself to the wiles of his tongue, the parting of his lips, the caustic shades of his nonchalance. One breathy segment of noise left his throat, indistinct and muffled, a pallet of unsaid notions, scrupulous and methodical distinction; concise, inscrutable, Delphic design. “Hn.”