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.
A dream, a nightmare, someone's ideal reality-Palace of Ulric labyrinths, Elvira Crest.
࿐RENON࿐ |Llevan|
RENON MORTIMER watchedas the spirited sun lowered the soft blue sky to an unusual shade of mourning purple. To its left was the Olympus moon, shining its usually sheen of expired petunias, foreshadowing all the disarray that was due to unravel in the town of Bozez. The disjointed rock shone antagonistically over the heads of his troops, distorting and abusing the shadows of their armour while exposing him to his world's neglected spotlight of criticism. It was as if the world that surrounded the young boy was completely falsified, a game built for the sole purpose of uncovering his inability to portray his father's feats.
Those cruel feelings of estrangement torrented his existence as the procession of his soldiers throbbed in tempo with the hysterical thing his father claimed to be too weak to be called a heart-but nobody would ever know that with the hard amour covering his chest. His feet felt thin with the constricting expectations of his father, but nobody would ever know because of the stiff boots bewitching him in place. He was strangling in his caught air of fixation, yet all anyone would ever notice would be the macabre mask that exhaled malice, decay, and inevitable death. He was not a person in the eyes of his prey. He was not a son in the silhouette of the father that refused to acknowledge the boy under all his seams of protective coverings.
Ransom was not a person, only a peak of Gothic Mortimer's novel power.
A power, his father's nasty whisper put in, that is a grain of me.
Gothic's whispers were thawed with a brisk surge of grace, wrenching and prowling the young general's insides with nothing but raw fuel. He had felt the same crackling grace on the day of the LEVEL disaster at the hands of Than, bundled and coiling beyond the shades with a rotten artery to trouble. It wasn't long after the lightning of grace that the northern city scattered into a hot-tempered outflow of butchery. Devastation delivered to both standpoints of strive. Its danger seared the Llevanian city.
Murderers, an elusive pur dusted his ear, hide in the royalty of darkness. He could hear its crazed grin against its malignant words. They lurk for the blood of your sheep. They skulk for the man at the point of your sword.
The spare trees curtailed the nigher they got to the town, the raucous whoops of civilians orbiting around him as a baiting scent laid out for the tastebuds of a monster. Closer. The forecasting voice of a man trembled at Ransom's eardrum, effortlessly disguising the rumbles of his men's expedition. A little further. Standing at the edge of Bozez's wild forest, the boy could finally feel the five branches of grace that stalked within the closing town, each a grim rabid that was keen to strike as they closed in. Closer, boy.
