Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
It’d been much easier to live as the Reaper.
Vicious and vile, and expected to be – a precise machine meant for bombardments and brutality, a weapon for the mountains, for the summits, for the hills. Cold and nonchalant, barbaric and unforgiving, he’d been as stoic as the world he resided within, as chilling as the hollowed sectors, as wound and twisted as their immoral structure. A fiend slinking in his macabre devastation, promising, vowing, committing to immobile reserve, to hushed, fortified reticence – and he’d done so well in his heathen cloaks and layered ire, in his masked, iron pretenses, in his deplorable, horrible wake. The realms had pressed into his sinew and he lacerated back, luring danger, finessing forbidding, inveigling iniquity in the coils of his antagonistic disposition. He would’ve let the kingdoms outside his home decay, wither, fester, and die. He would’ve been content with the slaughter of those not contained within his walls. Contemplations were reserved for unraveling the folds of other lands, other terrains, taut, minute motions they’d never see coming.
He hadn’t cared.
The Sword did, entirely too much, embedded and infused and immersed into chance after chance, opportunity after opportunity, to be beloved and to cherish in return. Maybe, because he’d been allowed, permitted, to become something other than that vacant, arcane rapier, it hurt so much more, cracking under the pressure of another life he couldn’t save, that he’d sent to the gallows all on his own.
So the beast wanted nothing more than to sink into those hollowed, empty sanctions, where the ice wrapped around his heart and made it forgo, forget, return to the impassive, to the potency, to only treacherous considerations and damn the rest of the condemnations. He craved the cold, the chilling pretenses, the primordial, sinuous designs of eldritch abominations, of a monster brewing and brooding from his cave, longing for nothing more than to let go. It was simpler. There were no torturous vows to keep them all safe. There were no armaments to guard the vestiges around him. Only emptiness, a great vessel, a shell.
Somewhere along the way he’d managed to find a table, a chair, and placed it nearby Rexanna’s quarters, and only now, he leaned across it. A guard for death and desecration, protection far, far too late. He ducked his head down along his arms, striving to hide, to peel back, to harden, to dissolve.
Vicious and vile, and expected to be – a precise machine meant for bombardments and brutality, a weapon for the mountains, for the summits, for the hills. Cold and nonchalant, barbaric and unforgiving, he’d been as stoic as the world he resided within, as chilling as the hollowed sectors, as wound and twisted as their immoral structure. A fiend slinking in his macabre devastation, promising, vowing, committing to immobile reserve, to hushed, fortified reticence – and he’d done so well in his heathen cloaks and layered ire, in his masked, iron pretenses, in his deplorable, horrible wake. The realms had pressed into his sinew and he lacerated back, luring danger, finessing forbidding, inveigling iniquity in the coils of his antagonistic disposition. He would’ve let the kingdoms outside his home decay, wither, fester, and die. He would’ve been content with the slaughter of those not contained within his walls. Contemplations were reserved for unraveling the folds of other lands, other terrains, taut, minute motions they’d never see coming.
He hadn’t cared.
The Sword did, entirely too much, embedded and infused and immersed into chance after chance, opportunity after opportunity, to be beloved and to cherish in return. Maybe, because he’d been allowed, permitted, to become something other than that vacant, arcane rapier, it hurt so much more, cracking under the pressure of another life he couldn’t save, that he’d sent to the gallows all on his own.
So the beast wanted nothing more than to sink into those hollowed, empty sanctions, where the ice wrapped around his heart and made it forgo, forget, return to the impassive, to the potency, to only treacherous considerations and damn the rest of the condemnations. He craved the cold, the chilling pretenses, the primordial, sinuous designs of eldritch abominations, of a monster brewing and brooding from his cave, longing for nothing more than to let go. It was simpler. There were no torturous vows to keep them all safe. There were no armaments to guard the vestiges around him. Only emptiness, a great vessel, a shell.
Somewhere along the way he’d managed to find a table, a chair, and placed it nearby Rexanna’s quarters, and only now, he leaned across it. A guard for death and desecration, protection far, far too late. He ducked his head down along his arms, striving to hide, to peel back, to harden, to dissolve.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
