Deimos was as patient as he was dangerous, a formidable, cool, pernicious exploitation of chaos and disaster, of bedlam and hell, of infernal glee and tumultuous scintillation. He waited amongst the runes and ruins of the Edge, he waited while the emptiness of his enchantments simmered, then subsequently renewed, and he waited until the world turned a blind eye to his puissance – and ran. He breathed treachery, crooned potency and became immersed into the terror, the fear, the peril of virtue personified, that ran over the turmoil of his heathen body, the irreverent existence of rapier brevity, of sharp, piercing cutlasses, of the hushed spirit of devilish insurrection and wicked depravity. The ravenous coils of his suffering, of his loathing ignited and burned, the callous corruption of his discarded soul ravaged and ravished, and the malicious discord, the menacing, cruel artifice of his creation preyed upon the unlocked corridors. The diabolical debacle of his abduction and chains had torn against his ferocity and plunged into his blackguard turbulence, but he’d been tolerant, resigned, forbearing as the links weaved their pious whims over his skin, sliced into the yearning chords of satanic demise, composed as bedlam chilled in reverent, sullen silence. Yet, as many sinister, nefarious inclinations and machinations, scions of Mephistopheles, could relate, there was only so much tolerance, only so much indulgence, only so much acceptance, and now he sprung upon the carnage and wreckage of his longing grandeur, the decadent opulence of iniquity, licentious devotion. Tartarean guile and fiendish design carved and sculpted the embodiment of his escape, the clamor, the din, the dissonance of his undulating fury returned, the brutality, the savagery, the abhorrence pulsed amongst the unholy clamors of predacious sinew, of glorious, clawing, ripping, rancorous barbarity. Finessed forbidding, hedonistic elation, antagonistic distortion, he transgressed and sinned all over again, stoic, elegant reticence into the immoralities of entropy, disorder, ruin and collapse – and for once, he wanted something, aching and craving for the pending, augured, presaged doom, the severe strangulation of a realm, kingdom, and palisade he’d once protected.
The boughs, glades, and copses forgot about life as they touched his frame, the winds, flowers, and saplings stole away from his choking, mangling structure, and the devil whispered his delight as the blessing of his oeuvre, of his satanic statue, of his ethereal opus, controlled the whims of his gift, his curse, again. Sumptuous and vivacious, a welcoming purr of influence, supremacy and annihilation, he cherished the touching, scorching malediction as delicious ambrosia, drenching each vein, each muscle, each portal of flesh in its infidel regime until he was the vessel, the harbringer of death, the Grim Reaper, the scythe and sword, the eternal demise again. It murmured and bled into the atmosphere, unfurling vespers of the damned, coiling allure of the condemned, the hazardous snare of mortality, slinking and drinking in the tides of the universe, leaving a dissolute, depraved trail of death in the wake of chaos, destruction and devastation. He allowed the forceful reign of necromancy to fester, surround, pervade his soul, wither and decay the surfaces he sinuously serpentined over, crossed and commanded. Vengeance, remorseless and barbarous, laced, layered and lacquered the enamel of his impassive resolve and reticent features, stealing life from limb, breath from lungs, decency from grace, divinity from heaven. The earth, borders and fringe, became soaked, stained, in his ardor, in his craft, in his diligence of contempt and loathing, but he didn’t stay to view and witness its quietus, and instead, dared the world to give chase, to meet their own ends at the hands of his predator amore, carnivore rapture, raptorial reverie.
[Escape thread.]
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