Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
It sounded as though he’d missed out on some tale. His eyes went away from the Oasis and back to her, tilting his head, listening all the more, mind present, Machiavellian thoughts already presiding. It was old habit to plot and scheme, muse and regard, back in the days where an adversary’s weight and might, stronghold and position, meant he’d have to unfold something to protect his kingdom, or destroy another’s. It wasn’t even remotely the same here, but still difficult to meander, slash, or tether away – Reaper influences and entanglements, taking in the whispers of the world and pondering what to do with them.
Setting a bear loose; asking them to use one basic magic. True, he wouldn’t do that. He’d allow them to wield what they thought was best, to try and solve their problem with everything at their disposal – because that was how the world operated. That’s what he’d experienced.
And sometimes, even that didn’t matter.
“Sounds like Zariah,” half a shrug, his gaze already flickered away, back to reeds and tree-lines, back to copses and expanses, back to a year before, when the Merciless had wreaked havoc. He nodded though, indicating he was still listening, an inaudible sigh sliding through his lungs, back out into the vestiges and ether. “Fair enough.” Maybe he was just looking for an excuse, a reason, for them to all go rampaging against her once more – rebellion in his blood and bones, insurrection creeping along his spine, revolutions and inherent routines a press in his skull.
He shuttered and closed it off, a wall, a fortress, a bastion, concentration mired and ensconced in the brutality of his own making: at least he would always have his magic, always have his enchantments, always have the condemning desecration spiraled from his figure. At her suggestion, and an inkling of attempting to siphon off of his, he arched his brow, a ruffian, smug snicker tucked in the corner of his mouth, and unleashed. The orb of fire unraveled and intertwined with the air, feeding off his power, his mastery, his dominion; and he didn’t see his father in the flames anymore, but the banking and stoking of something else altogether. An infernal wall, morphing into a tower, streamlined and sanctioned towards the sky, lifting and enveloping, twisting and turning, capable of engulfing, swallowing, and devouring everything whole. Except he controlled, he wielded, he composed – and so it remained over the water, treacherous and triumphant.
Setting a bear loose; asking them to use one basic magic. True, he wouldn’t do that. He’d allow them to wield what they thought was best, to try and solve their problem with everything at their disposal – because that was how the world operated. That’s what he’d experienced.
And sometimes, even that didn’t matter.
“Sounds like Zariah,” half a shrug, his gaze already flickered away, back to reeds and tree-lines, back to copses and expanses, back to a year before, when the Merciless had wreaked havoc. He nodded though, indicating he was still listening, an inaudible sigh sliding through his lungs, back out into the vestiges and ether. “Fair enough.” Maybe he was just looking for an excuse, a reason, for them to all go rampaging against her once more – rebellion in his blood and bones, insurrection creeping along his spine, revolutions and inherent routines a press in his skull.
He shuttered and closed it off, a wall, a fortress, a bastion, concentration mired and ensconced in the brutality of his own making: at least he would always have his magic, always have his enchantments, always have the condemning desecration spiraled from his figure. At her suggestion, and an inkling of attempting to siphon off of his, he arched his brow, a ruffian, smug snicker tucked in the corner of his mouth, and unleashed. The orb of fire unraveled and intertwined with the air, feeding off his power, his mastery, his dominion; and he didn’t see his father in the flames anymore, but the banking and stoking of something else altogether. An infernal wall, morphing into a tower, streamlined and sanctioned towards the sky, lifting and enveloping, twisting and turning, capable of engulfing, swallowing, and devouring everything whole. Except he controlled, he wielded, he composed – and so it remained over the water, treacherous and triumphant.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
