The tricksters way | Africa,Open

[OPEN] The tricksters way | Africa,Open

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527

Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5

Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB

Heather

05-05-2013, 06:31 PM

Infallible intimidation, wrought in iron, forged in steel, settled in sinew, punctured, laced and lanced against the quarters of his sinuous movements. Barbarous, savage, contorted mayhem in the siege and sea of terror and plight, drove archaic, malicious footfalls across the earth, watched it dim, die, wither, shrink and shirk its grandeur, returned to the onslaught of collapse and disorder that christened their existence. Rhythms of catacombs and tombs, a walk that proclaimed graves, that sculpted headstones, that denounced and reviled in the sinister swing of vile, monstrous bliss. His decomposing heart, with its blackened, scarred existence, struck an unholy crescendo, stitched seams of sin singing its wicked, derisive hymns, the distant, nonchalant, nefarious splendor of darkening hours. He was irreverent vehemence, vicious maelstrom, vivid menace, malice ensnared, wrapped and woven into each undulating core of his coiled muscles, devilishly encompassing the molten, infernal reverie of his villainous respite. Plucked from the arms of the battlefield, of conquerors, of kings, of sovereignty and supremacy blended into the cursed march of his dominating prowess, the pernicious, poisonous puissance of his resolute power; a wretched, horrible, abominable monster. He lived in acrimony, fueled and instigated, incensed and kindled along the winding tortures of entropy, anarchy and bedlam, touched by the lavished opulence of decadent fervor, and now further incited by the foolish turbulence of the inept, the weak, the idiotic and mundane. He was cruelty, villainy and atrocity in the slinking, slithering condemnation of life, peril immersed in strife, the arrow, the spear, the rapier dipped in venom, aiming to scald, to sear, to beat the witless, the artless, the creatures that roamed in bliss, in ignorance, to decay and fall apart in the seams of their stupidity. And they, these monotonous barrages of imbeciles, had made a fatal error.

Their scents wafted and mingled over the cold wind, the heady warning of bleak, inane intrusion. His presaged, augured authority coolly traced the filaments of memory, found them wanting, wavering, hovering between dolt and dunce. Their strides had not been carved into the herd prior, nor did they not belong to the arches of ice and rime, of frost and glaciers, of mountains and valleys. Was this yet another bundle of idiots, nestled in their unintelligence, warmed by their exultation of exploring, of the delight of their capricious, molten stupidity? What were they hoping to find, to achieve? Why were there so many surrounding them, constantly mingling in the arts of danger, in the eaves and tapestries of treachery? Did they want to find obliteration, dangling and strangling their souls? Did they want to touch, to taste, the delicacy of wounds, of demise, of ruin and desecration? Did they want the feeling of a noose dragged over their napes, strung across their throats, beaten, lavished, torn into the framework of insurrection and turmoil? He yearned to deliver, to bestow, that promise of death to them. He longed for their eternal disquiet, their civil unrest, for their lungs to cease breathing, for their hearts to stop beating, for their world to be swallowed beneath the slinking promise of his extermination. He’d devour them whole, watch them decompose in the sumptuous carnivore upheaval, the rise, the fall, of their meaningless tirades. The devil was convicted, contorted, consumed in his movements, in his motions, following in a predacious slink, covering his world in the oath of desecration, piercing, toiling, unraveling until he stood in the wake of the other horned one, of the beast flying overhead, trespassers clinging to their last dream, their last hope, their last inspiration. His eyes glared, unrelenting, unheeded scrapes of piercing, harpooning lacerations, the nonchalant exterior hiding the taut affirmations of his vehement, wolfish desires. The harsh grate of his words, swords and daggers, knives and scythes, demanded over the slash of ice and sky. “Leave.” The one warning, before the plunge of blade into flesh, the silent incantation of death across bodies.

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