Their God created a monster. In primal droves the nefarious Deimos harked carnal reverie within a strumming, untapped power, enticing repulsion and muted salvation amongst fiendish, undulating muscles that possessed and controlled in demonic, sinuous finesse. He was a blend of primordial domination and serpentine desolation, an immaculate enrapture of infidel ardor, molded and sculpted for familial pursuits, grinding and driving his desolate, arcane frame into the screaming, whimpering frenzy of maddened enemies until the finale of a last pulse twitched a sullen artery. His presence screeched resonating, pervading, suffocating and stifling immorality, overbearing in its contemptuous ire, forlorn and wretched in the restrained, fervent decorum of his predatory motions. Blessed to singe and seethe for his comrades, to swipe a furious cutlass across opposing throats, to bear arms in a lone, dwindling catacomb for supremacy – to arch in a lithe, supple embrace of strength and corruption, to descend in a lissome stroke of tyranny and anarchy, singeing salvation and tormenting deliverance. A slashing pawn designed to destroy, a feverish marionette devised to ruin, a lone soldier to shelter the storm for the prodigal son, misplacing the figures of attachment and emotion as he swept a dynasty’s bleached bones. Compassion decays, beneficence rots, and clemency withers, collapsing in the corrosion of his blackened heart until there is naught, naught but that dreaded slate of insouciance postured violently across his handsome features.
The wind whispered ethereal canticles against the tight strings of his might and brawn, a sultry cavalcade of fatal hymns, mourning the embrace of day and the hindrance of night. He simmered in the bows of shadows and webbing of twilight, coolly immersed in the tangible streak of nocturne silk, hushed and unabated, as dangerous as he’d been moments before. His breath ghosted over the dim rim of moonlight, casting a specter shade of behemoth interludes kindling in a frenzied, dire moment of intensity, before they rippled and tore away into the witching hour’s brew. A threatening, callous bounty of sin and iniquity, twisted into the rigid entity of havoc, a taciturn, reticent menace twined in the anarchic solemnity of corruption, he stared, rustling apathy in the cool balm of his sinister, argent glare. Quiet in his abhorrence, his calculating air caught the dark traces of another, poised along the borders of charred hell, bestial damnation. He was unaware of his status, but the clinging scent spoke of Edge, warped and sullied as the rest of ashen heraldry. The other called for their King, the icy Mauja, and no sooner had the stroke of discordance been uttered then the monarch approached. He, the apparition’s smooth trace of ravished reaper puissance, came forward, muscles wound with precious, sanctimonious control, authoritative, ferocious steps, pulsing indifference despite the daunting weight of the hour. They drove to the depths of the meeting, then onward, a stronghold from his venomous manipulations, into the murky shades of the moon’s veil, the blackguard of the devil’s party. The sinister fatality of his stare remarked first upon the sovereign beast, a silent nod bestowed by a twist of his archaic head, then to the unknown caller. There, he occupied the land with the stifling, startling brevity of his silence, the singular discordance of his intangible strokes. ”Hn.”
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