He could rip the delicacy from her bones, the virtue from her flesh, and the splendor of life from her lungs, and still she remained, a tireless essence of youthful indulgence. Some would likely kindle such garb as brave and valiant; he considered it mundane, tiresome, and stupid. Lacking in fortitude, she maintained that simmering bulb of immaturity, the blissful life of a child without desolation, despair and melancholy. He, however, had been made from such contortions, bound into the depths of isolation and anarchy within the first year of his birth, burning into the juvenile court of his body until all he became was rigid, coarse, deadly grace, taut murder, horrid devastation. He simmered in damnation, flocking to the heathen boroughs of malicious, venomous contentions and convictions, rigorous strength, contemptuous vigor, and she flourished, frolicked into the seeds of his torn homeland like a bird, inane, vacuous, disgusting. He almost sneered at her words, soft, mellifluous chimes that wreaked of ignorance, but instead, only ushered a raucous, discordant snort. Did she believe herself privileged, entitled, because of her horn, even when her livelihood did not possess these heralded, devastated walls? Was she not just as senseless as those other species, the ones tarnished by wings and feathers or their simple hooves? She walked into someone’s home and made demands of them? Pray that next time Mauja would allow him to condemn the wicked little fools that bounced around his realm. In his childhood, he would have laughed in her face, sneered, tormented and taunted until she fled in tears – but now, he just proceeded closer, a rapacious, predatory glimmer of insouciance and rebellion. The fierce, savage puncture of his gaze landed in her own eyes, narrowing in the specious, guileful duct of Machiavellian designs. Guarded, nonchalant, composed, he leaned into her presence, close-knit precariousness, felt the chords of his necromancy touch the ground beneath his hooves, chisel and steal the essence of life in pulsing, frenetic waves of savagery. His bestial shades did not falter; each breath he prospered was layered with the distinct rapture of death, puissant, indignant iniquity. His licentious credence fueled the harsh, flattened features of his voice, still ringing with demand, leaving any peaceful siege in shambles. “You have your audience. Now give me your purpose.” A tiresome scion, she even harked for his calling. He’d proffer it to her like a gift, wrapped, shambled, discordant, and meticulous, a calculating band of letters that combined into a searing, scintillating plunge of unholy, turbulent sin. "Deimos.”
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
