Moral, mortal decay and ash slid from the haunted parlors, the arcane, reticent hallways, the dark, decadent corridors masked and lacquered with demonic enamel. It pulsed and pervaded, the gliding avarice of a demanding folly, the twist, the turn, the yearn, of a sublime spirit rendered cold and disembodied, drumming, toiling, unraveling. A desperate ache, a feverish plight, a cast iron entity frozen into the severed wake of annihilation, pending, augured menace and malice, for at his feet, the world burned, withered and decayed. His heart, unaltered, untouched from the corroded, blackened shambles of its minute existence, caressed the rusted pinnacles, the shuddering streams, the shivering, abandoned copses, laying his monstrous foundation of anarchic motifs and compositions. Insurrection brewed from the heat of his incantations, from the might of his movements, turmoil loomed in the vehemence of his violence, and travesty harkened from the state of his quiet opus. Ever more reclusive, wasting amongst incorporeal seams, he stuck to the hollowed sectors of the Basin, where the wind scarred, where the valley ended and peril began, where the road to ruin was driven from his daggers and his muted tongue. He clung to desolation, a tangible thread woven into his deadly canvas, a rapture, a reverie that neither bled him dry nor scorched his bones. Isolation was a second skin, buried deep into his marrow, lined into his veins, quivering in his lungs, rubble and ruin, barrenness and wild, untamed opulence, where he couldn’t crumble, where he couldn’t vanquish; where he merely breathed inside his makeshift tomb, alone. It came with the snow and the ice, the cool, harsh nonchalance of his heresy, of his nihility, prospering with the vile, horrible existence that threatened livelihoods, that decimated futures, that sank into the delusion of grandeur, sought terror, brought horror. The beast, the devil, Mephistopheles’ sword, sank into the pit of devastation, crooned mayhem across his lips, felt the frigid, hedonistic elation cross over his nefarious, broiling muscle, and became ever wound into the layers of allure: danger, pernicious, Tartarean, the condemned. Too distorted, too frayed, taken from bliss and harkened to naught but idle, primordial treachery, he was fed by the consumption of fear, by the awakening of abhorrence, by the trenches of raptorial predilection, ambrosia for wolves, for carnivores, for rancor and maleficence. Deimos, monster and demon, lunged from infidels and enmity only when the earth craved for more, chasing the fiends crossing into his borders, maiming, ripping, tearing, ensnaring the comfort of his destruction.

A silent rapier, he stalked the unholy sedition humming amongst his layers, ravenous, brutal, the hot, undulating acrimony of his motions only encompassed the puissant maelstrom of his presence. He crossed borders to consume and he traversed lands to devour. Wicked and damned, the macabre gift to a sovereignty that knew dominion, supremacy and depravity, godless, irreverent, that craved and sibilated immorality, that witnessed the beauty of finessed iniquity drenched and dragged across their peaks, he marched and guarded, pervaded and demolished. The rain lingered, cold and idle, listless and languid, wintry brushstrokes painted across his cheeks, along his flanks, down the length of his spine, altering his route as he craved its solitude, its sanctuary. The freezing air curled around his nares, and for brief moments of time his piercing stare watched the puffs of warmth dissolve, deluded into the stroke of midnight oil, disappearing under the weight of unseen stars and harkened catastrophe – heat and fervency, bursting, then lost. His path snaked around the never-freezing lake, perhaps the only creature within the Siberian husk that didn’t share his frigid indifference, his eternal detachment, twisting and distorting the callous waves of grass still standing in the arch of winter’s incoming-reign. He would have witnessed their fall, their collapse, had the slightest glimpse of blue not caught his eye. For a moment, he was inquisitive, searched the grounds for the bright disturbance, and when he caught the radiance in his puncturing gaze, he recalled the luminescence, the glow, the illuminating trace of grace and elegance that sketched the drizzle. Huyana.. The twilight’s toil, the evening’s prevail, the fall of the discordant sky; he was in her grasp, frozen, ensnared and allured into the cascading droplets clinging to his brow. The behemoth remembered her, wisps of clouds and water, sea and foam, lithe, slender minuets of words framed by watery transgressions. Memories reflected in stormy eyes, revolutions, turbulences, gales brewed and bellowed across the stretch of silence, the anguish of nations, the apocalypse of worlds forgotten and transfixed. He didn’t move towards her, allowing his bones to cease their scintillating havoc, their smoldering serration. Only a lush whisper, harsh, unrelenting, parted his mouth, invoked his tongue, incensed a simple word, fierce friction, demanding prowess, chiseled armaments of a ruthless blade calling to the rain. “Huyana.” He sanctioned the syllables to rot in a ruthless grate, a feverish hiss, intangible threads of unattainable, unreachable melancholy.