Taken from the hallowed reaches of Tartarus, the grasp of Ixion, the primitive, noxious haze of virulent animosity, penetrating agony and massacred depths of delusion, he presided amongst the bitter kingdom, reigned in rancor, shifted on his throne of diabolical ministrations and machinations. The Reaper coveted and consumed, fed upon the everlasting, eternal, unending, unceasing darkness, devoured and swallowed the remnants of latter days, of virtues, of hopes and dreams, of scattered remains built upon whimsies, fancies and reveries, captured and held the dying edges of all its tattered wings. He absconded the torturous, ceaseless, enigmatic amalgams, breathed invocations of iniquity and disaster, stroked the grace, the elegance, and the stratagems of a devil’s warrior, doomed and destroyed before inhaling their first breath. He swung his scythe into frozen eaves, watched as the tangled barbs of livelihoods, reverences and benedictions fell to their graves, tumbled into headstones, torn, distraught, and corrupted by the last few moments of their decadence; the master of malice, the sovereignty of sinister laments, the monarch of calamity, crowned king of annihilation as he witnessed the world rot beneath his hooves, sink along his motions, drift into upheaval, bedlam, anarchy as he stretched across its vast plains. Callous devastation, heartless ruin lingering, listless, languid catastrophes brought on by mere contemptible insurgency, to conquer, to claim, to usher violence, irreverence, revolution heralded by incised, engraved, unholy disquiet. He sculpted iniquity from silence, crooned abomination in the hushed void, in the nefarious calm, in the anxious, uneasy composure of sin and licentiousness, smothered discordance with the sweep of his rapier barbarity. The beast harnessed every moment of annihilation, the harpooning lance, the behemoth abhorrence, the demonic depravity confessed from predacious lips, the feral, woven fervency of stoic scheming. An ethereal ruin, fastidious forbidding, infernal intimidation caught in the motion of his scintillating immorality, of his heathen brushstrokes and arched detachment, the woven shears of his noxious blade, slinking, swindling, sliding amongst the unholy possessions of his fierce, rampant domination.

The ghostly edges of blue appeared, overwhelmed, stirred, roused the potent puissance, the pernicious predilection, and he ceased all motion, converted to the statue again, the marble surface, the imperious recherché and immobile reserve locking lithe, limber limbs. The rain had come once more, showering her finery in the unforgiving reel of collapse and antagonism, blending into carnage, into enigmas, into debauchery and detachment, and his features eroded to arch a brow, carnivore calculations heralded in the blunt terror of his eldritch wake. Light, airy, serene and gentle, whispering his name across the void, the abyss, the chasm of afflictions, tragedies and violence, harboring it like a song, like a serenade – why? Why was she amongst these horrendous parlors, awakened and alive in the breadth of mayhem? Why did she wander the halls of augured requiems, drenched in the delusions of its eerie pinnacles, its clawing, grasping thresholds, its perilous mass of mania and desecration? Why did she traverse the bowels, the innards, the entrails of Hell – hoping to wash away its plight, its debauchery, its contempt and corruption? Or did she do this to lure his curiosity, to ensnare him fully into the gulf of her hold, her grip, her vivid croons and coquette dances? Where was the light she’d promised to show him, ever fleeting, ever presiding, ever destroying the barbs he pulsed and pervaded? Where were her armaments, her sieges: the soundless affections of a virtuous, patient soul, the merciful compassion swindled and starved, as if they’d never seen, never touched, never tasted hell? He leaned in, closer, a soft, slow, murmur away, crouched in the veil of darkness, raptorial, wolfish, controlled. His breath, snaking, scintillating vapor, coiled over her forelock, watched it billow in the uneasy shrouds of rattling, baleful torments, the shrieks and dirges of all the living becoming deceased. The devastating stare, vivid and haunting, composed the duet of hidden, noxious secrets and desecrations, beat a demanding trace in the heart of his anarchy, in the sway of his apathy, in the opulence, in the grandeur, of his commanding brutality. Voice, intoned with savagery, with curiosity, with disdain and derision, ushered the query that stoked, incised, prompted and provoked his mind, sauntered across his sentiments as a bright, strange wind. “Why are you here?”