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02-09-2013, 09:16 AM
He listened in silence, the formidable, the strong, the enduring, from the cape of shadows languished over mountains, springs and copses, strangled in the Stygian slights, pinned away from the crowd so that his arts did not bleed, corrupt and annihilate those considered brethren. They spoke of rewards, of wars unrelated to them (unless he sought a further reach, this vacuous Tio), ranks they longed to hold, and he, forever nonchalant, remained eternally indifferent, carved in dangerous, treacherous repose, the General brandished in unholy death and rancorous persecution. He stood as the valorous sword, the fatal, murderous shield, as the chat continued. Maintaining his interest only conjured entropy and disorder, callous invocations and heathenous rapture, so he strayed amongst the wicked, stayed to the tides of infernal iniquity, offered naught but the harsh rendering of his lethal quietude, absorbing the arts of conversation but relating to none of its sculptures. The only thing that truly caught his attention amongst the growing, looming crowd was a familiar presence that hadn’t been seen in the flowing, specious webs of time, ice come to call when sun threatened to scorch. His penetrating, piercing stare focused upon his former sovereign, scoured the spotted frame for wounds, for barbs, for nettles that explained the strange disappearance of his dominion. When naught became apparent, no answers rendered from hushed scrutiny, he turned away, chiseled his features towards Psyche and the chattering drones and doldrums of the herd – but a strange, unmistakable smirk curled one corner of his lips at the unsung semblance of the returned king.
