death, you bring death and destruction to all that you touch
The Reaper once stood before others and relished their fear. When they could see him for what he truly was – a condemning, destructive, demolishing force, capable of crushing and diminishing, devastating and contorting, with the span of a breath, with the lacquer of his lungs, with such little, condemning effort. He stared at their quaking forms. He savored the rapid, apprehensive beat of their hearts – final and gone in a matter of moments. He waited for the world to ignore his warnings, single and absolute, before rendering exactly as he’d intended, what he’d meant, what he’d promised. And despite every moment, despite every tale, despite every story, despite every nuance and notion of that fabled Lord of the Basin, there were always idiots, always fools, who failed to listen.
He stared at one of them now, as the Flood opened the door, permitting him entry into his home. Perhaps another foolish notion.
The Sword took an instant to study the world around him – predacious grace and minatory habits – toys for a child littering the floor, the kitchen haphazard, the shelter just as much of a wreck as the man, as the world outside. Animal strewn, fake and stuffed, books for an older juvenile causing him the slightest pause, considering he was in the belief, the notion, that the youth conspired between Sunjata and Safrin would be an infant.
Only thereafter did he arch his brow at the first statement, the reticence morphing, molding, melding, into furrowed brows and contempt in the piercing slate of his eyes. “Like a storm would stop me.” The Flood should’ve known better than that.
The offer was unexpected, but didn’t flare away his anger. If Sunjata was hoping for a distraction, he’d be sorely disappointed. “Water would be fine.”
And then, of course, he would start going for it.
Mastered incantations of the element bombarding him were suddenly whisked away – gone from his coat, gone from his skin, gone from his flesh, and then he rounded back upon the other man. “We have had this discussion once before.” He helped himself to a chair, pulling it out from the table, removing the stuffed dragon already occupying the space. “I had hoped you had changed.”
He stared at one of them now, as the Flood opened the door, permitting him entry into his home. Perhaps another foolish notion.
The Sword took an instant to study the world around him – predacious grace and minatory habits – toys for a child littering the floor, the kitchen haphazard, the shelter just as much of a wreck as the man, as the world outside. Animal strewn, fake and stuffed, books for an older juvenile causing him the slightest pause, considering he was in the belief, the notion, that the youth conspired between Sunjata and Safrin would be an infant.
Only thereafter did he arch his brow at the first statement, the reticence morphing, molding, melding, into furrowed brows and contempt in the piercing slate of his eyes. “Like a storm would stop me.” The Flood should’ve known better than that.
The offer was unexpected, but didn’t flare away his anger. If Sunjata was hoping for a distraction, he’d be sorely disappointed. “Water would be fine.”
And then, of course, he would start going for it.
Mastered incantations of the element bombarding him were suddenly whisked away – gone from his coat, gone from his skin, gone from his flesh, and then he rounded back upon the other man. “We have had this discussion once before.” He helped himself to a chair, pulling it out from the table, removing the stuffed dragon already occupying the space. “I had hoped you had changed.”
DEIMOS
