It's taken a lifetime to lose my way
All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand
The cultists didn’t appear to be a constant, ongoing threat, or merely worked in silence, in duplicitous efforts, building and biding their time. To not have heard of or about them since was bizarre to him, and then the semblances of everything else were such a distraction, that he had to pinpoint them for further recollections, for future interminglings of minds and council predilections.
Roars and echoes, cackles and melees, ghosts of the past resounding, rebounding against cavern walls, and even as he completed the bridge, his figure was on edge, an unyielding, unbending predator, merely waiting for an opportunity for onslaughts and destruction. It was a finely stoked vehemence, layered and lacquered in brutality, in the bits and pieces of memories coming back to life, verging right behind his eyes, so he could almost hear the manifestation of the Merciless all over again. How she’d altered. How she’d reigned. How she’d dominated. How she’d threatened and imprisoned.
How they rebelled.
The Sword’s eyes narrowed as he crossed the manifestations, the structure holding firm, his breaths sharper than he would’ve liked. Nothing murmured too, and Zuriel snorted. Following, glancing, monitoring, a scrupulous figure ready for violence – and then the flicker of blue up ahead; more caution needed, expected. A huff of frustration left him, but he didn’t bore it any further. Fire? he mentioned; out of no other reasoning.
Roars and echoes, cackles and melees, ghosts of the past resounding, rebounding against cavern walls, and even as he completed the bridge, his figure was on edge, an unyielding, unbending predator, merely waiting for an opportunity for onslaughts and destruction. It was a finely stoked vehemence, layered and lacquered in brutality, in the bits and pieces of memories coming back to life, verging right behind his eyes, so he could almost hear the manifestation of the Merciless all over again. How she’d altered. How she’d reigned. How she’d dominated. How she’d threatened and imprisoned.
How they rebelled.
The Sword’s eyes narrowed as he crossed the manifestations, the structure holding firm, his breaths sharper than he would’ve liked. Nothing murmured too, and Zuriel snorted. Following, glancing, monitoring, a scrupulous figure ready for violence – and then the flicker of blue up ahead; more caution needed, expected. A huff of frustration left him, but he didn’t bore it any further. Fire? he mentioned; out of no other reasoning.
I'm fine in the fire
I feed on the friction
