Chaos is God in a system of true disorder. And I seek to my title of God, I have no care for whoever crumples to nothing in my persuit to achieve such.
Would she seize in the futile indictments of fellows entrenched from the springs of covetousness or go on to heed his precious cravings of power? -APalace of Ulric labyrinths, Elvira Crest.
|Cazar- March 16, 7426|
HEELSCLICKED ominously against the innards of the fair mansion, the gushing key of her gown roping in the nature that aided quash the shaking trees that heralded her. Moonlight fell comfortably against her discordant eyes, blazing for acclaim as her figure moved in key with the smothering milieu that was made a euphony by her ears.
Her onyx hair reached her lower back, tickling the skin her silk dress uncovered in fashioned philandering. The fragrance of freshly picked daisies and cut strawberries lagged after her like a homeless puppy-nonetheless, the slaying aroma that droned the setting was anything but a soft sweetener.
Lime lapsed against the dams, the ground a mellowing fabric that made her bare feet jealous from lack of acquaintance. As Séraph persisted, the burden of her dagger's hold timidly snatched against the material of her skirt, reminding her of the sinful task she was to accomplish.
A guard in waiting activated at her appearance, waving her to a band of crystal doors that Séraph, from her numerous studies, handily recognised as Minister Solomon Cazar's room.
Treacherous thoughts flickered as the doors were tugged open to reveal a spacious room that was much more miserable than the rest of the fort. There was a theme of salem and grey on the walls and commodities that made up the room. Dull and pattern stained windows yanked an over-used emblem of a midnight march into the area, phoning up a meter of undesirable melancholy.
A King-sized bed sat snug in the red corner, hailing for Séraph as the shape of a small body pressed under the sheets. Séraph's hands grazed her concealed weapon as she smoothed down her dress. A batch of lengthy hair for a brisk moment bathed out of the covers, unearthing their youthful dark colours before the person sat sank lower as acknowledgement to her entrance.
"Are you Celine?" The question rang from the other side of the space, prompting her to stare at a man who sat on a seldom, hovering, polished steel chair, clouded cigar smoke coiling around him like he was stationed at the lid of a peak.
Another man sat polar to him, long silver robes floating behind him with a spot of gold extending from the pelt of fur that hung short by the nape of his neck, browsing at the side of his face once he also veered around to grab a glimpse at the newcomer. He didn't look as pleased as Solomon to see her.
