Vengeance, clattering and rampaging with cumbersome, worn layers, had rung its ugly chords again, pervading with the violent, haphazard din and clamor of turbulent, toxic blackguards, twitching and bewitching, assailing and sieging, always a righteous clatter for the opposition, always a disheveled, vexing position for the object. Upon this witching hour, he, terror and fear, been the creature absconded. The concept itself was an infuriating, seething one, where domination and supremacy fled, torn and ripped, leaving only the scintillating annihilation of his ravenous predilection burning, unforgiving, heinous, predacious, twisting the depraved shards of his ferocity until he became immersed in tranquil, primordial fury. The seditious mayhem coiled in his lungs, in his veins, in his soul, slinking and sidling, sliding and unwinding, wild, feral, caressing the wild springs of carnage, the lingering, enveloping possession of unholy, iniquitous devastation, treacherous mauling, and enigmatic immorality. The calamity rolled within his muscles, churned along the silken threads of his unholy grandeur, the forsaken, renounced friction, the animal indignation, the infernal, foul animosity brewing in callous, fervent derision. Devoured, consumed, by the hands of the enemy, Templar swords and blood crusades, stolen by the whims and chords of plaster saints and sanctimonious pietists, plunged and discarded into hypocritical pedestals and insincere shrines. Never satisfied, they doused the indulgences of their virtuous hearts and stalked the fancies of their benedictions, robbing, pillaging; weaving, lacing, lacerating the same threads his force, creed, bond, had pledged. Rancorous, clawing, pleading, yearning boils and barbs poking and prodding a hive of virulent, hostile world, committing another act with the pilfering of his form. Plucked from the fields of acrimony and entropy, locked into the oubliette of smug designs, and thrown into a familiar cell. Having sown the corners of the Edge a thousand times over, living in the cracks and rubble, the shadows and veils, there was no reveling in its existence or revering in the rapture of a former palisade to defend and honor, but merely, the circumstances that had led him to this infernal situation. The toiling, fiendish Tartarean gift bestowed to his pulsing sinew, his undulating influence, had been weakened.
He could still feel the devil’s threads whispering, a sullen, melancholy croon scraping against his insides, desperate and cloistered, corrupting and condemning, but otherwise sullen, tired, quiet. He registered the scraping of her companion’s claws, the draining, lifeless void that embodied his magic and fiercely snatched it away. A blessing, a curse, withered and exhausted, a diabolical machination that couldn’t revive its stance, couldn’t push its limbs to gather the sinister, nefarious inclination and appetite for abhorrence, listless, languid, spiritless, adrift by the screams of sirens. It left him with a strange, empty feeling, an arcane oeuvre without its artist, a warrior without his blade, a demon without its schemes and wiles, the wicked without its spells, the mage without his enchantments. The only interval of time he’d been bereft of the baleful, menacing contortions had been from his birth to early childhood, when innocence prevailed and arched, where the rapier edge of diabolical whims had not yet set in and he’d been free to touch, caress, without the repercussions of mortality, morality, and lethality blending into his motions. He’d been too young to savor fleeting moments, too foolish to become enamored with follies of seconds, minutes and hours - to become shrouded in the boughs of naught was foreign all over again. Was he altered now, fragmented from the incantations of heathens? Was he diminished, lessened, without the rampant decadence of ruin and destruction finessed, humming, from his irreverent brushstrokes? Was he broken, damaged, and weakened without the ravenous pull of his beguiling brutality? No, the rapacious strands thrummed against his hide, infirm and delicate, taut and slight – and he would show her, this dissembler, the very crux of his menace, the toiling, forbidding, minatory horror of his existence; he was far more than death.
I don’t want you - for a moment he could’ve uttered that no one did, but then he recalled the capricious tides of battlefields and devils, infidels and pariahs, and remembered that he sang upon fields of anarchy and bedlam. So, ultimately, like so many other moments before, Deimos said nothing. His features and movements were rendered in the same nonchalant, impassive stance, countenance chained to apathy, controlled and demanded into a rigorous, diligent impassivity – her words didn’t invoke emotion or sentiments, merely the lutes of war that continued on, piercing and puncturing. The chilling, cold gaze settled once upon the ivory griffin, then lingered upon the femme, and left a thousand cool convictions unspoken, raw, rancorous, brutal and savage. Given the opportunity, he would destroy the world set in front of him.
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
