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+--- Thread: [BDaSS] No Rest for the Wicked (/showthread.php?tid=7689)
[BDaSS] No Rest for the Wicked - Ezrihel - 07-14-2018
The path was rugged and dirty. His light steps kicked up small puffs of pale brown dust that lingered in the motionless air. His bright emerald eyes scraped over a pathetic and desolate landscape of brittle cracked soil; withered and bone dry plants seemed to ooze up from the fissures of the earth, like puss from a blighted and scabby infection. Barren trees reached twisted grey branches towards the sky, desperate to claw the heavens if they so had the chance.
Purgatory was a fitting name. The gods had forsaken and forgotten this cruel place long ago. Not like the blonde man could have even begun to blame them. Leaderless and destructive humans had eaten up everything in sight, scratching and fighting to race towards a nigh on irreversible chaos. They had paid dearly for it too, or at least those too poor and sorry had. As always the rich and most responsible boarded on ships and fled to the stars.
And now some of those people were trying- perhaps in vain- to fix an issue a thousand years long and far beyond being only systemically deep.
To put it bluntly humans had really fucked it all up.
Ezrihel gave a careless snort of disdain. The Sok’ma-tal would attribute all this to him as well if they had the chance or the breath left in their bodies. He was always to blame, always the reason. He was nothing but a failure, a force of destruction and hatred hellbent on forcing things to fit his scheme and vision for the most wicked of pictures. He had succeeded in a perceptibly infinite amount of endeavors and yet while history obliterated every portrait it created, it always painted him and his mistakes.
And here he was, basically in the middle of hell, rescuing some insignificant scientist that studied plants. He’d already had to smash at least two vicious mutated insects that had wanted to make a meal out of him. All because some pretty woman had inadvertently mentioned that some silly organisation and cause she happened to care about needed help.
She was gorgeous though. Her pretty downturned blue eyes always seemed to beckon to him, pleading with him to fall deep into her. To relax... To trust. Her aura promised it would be okay, promised that she would help, that she comprehended him and his reasons. She promised it would all be okay one day, that things- everything- could be corrected, made to be alright. He felt himself softly shudder, his coat rustled quietly.
She always looked at him like she knew, silver-blue eyes filled with some sort of wretched sympathy and understanding as if she had crawled into his skull and had him all figured out. She couldn’t possibly know. She could never ever understand him or the suffering he had endured at the hands of fate and gods and elders and tradition. No one had ever succeeded, regardless of their tactics or sickly soured flattery that begged for his story and his time with the gaping hungry mouths of young predators. Their soulless, empty bodies whispered a secret language he couldn't decipher but somehow understood.
And their cries were:
"Feed me... feed me..."
They begged him. Screaming and whispering. They wanted him to devour those around them, chew them up into a paste and smear them inside their mouths. To get drunk on the privilege of his attention. They raked their claws across his body, desperate to witness his destruction and bathe in his failures. Yet no matter where he turned they were there, on all sides, lying next to each other. Rows and rows of executioners.
Some were shirtless, robeless and throbbing with anticipation, sweat delicately sneaking its way through their dirty matted body hair. All of them were hooded, some like seventeenth century guillotine henchmen, others had crudely made hoods leering like scarecrows- or sullen ripped ski masks soiled with slobber from their clenching jaws. Some had burlap masks sewn together that looked like they were made of human skin.
Each one held a weapon, large mallets- crudely fashioned axes and large clubs, pipes.
But he wasn’t compelled to retreat, oh no. He was forced to move between them, past their swinging weapons: the clubs, the bats, the slicing tools, the shovels, the large and small axes, big boards with nails, staples and razorblades embedded in them. He was made to take the beatings, to fall down and get up again and again and again and again- driven to make. It. Out- at any cost.
Nila Malik was his poison. She would be his fall, his demise. Those enchanting silver-blue eyes bespoke a thousand sobbed begs of him and convinced him that he could still fly if he just reached far enough, if he could just run fast enough, try harder. She just wanted something, like everyone else. She was another hungry mouth, just not consciously. Like Katrina she’d cling to him, another parasite to feast and suckle from his bodice, another young predator to be adopted under the pretense of helplessness and need.
He sucked a deep breath in, the dusty grit of the desert air coated his purple tongue. The disk of the setting sun was swollen and heavy in the sky as it dipped below the horizon. On Irenya the sun’s light was soft and loving, but here, like everything else, the sun’s light was violent and tinted the world in merciless, angry reds. Shadows of standing rocks, scorched trees and defiant cacti stretched sinisterly across the landscape, ally to the inky ebb of unknown nocturnal threats.
Romance would be his demise.
He was too lenient, too kind. Too considerate. Too content to stand by passively while the squirming mass of maggots digested him from the inside out.
“Oh, beautiful miss Malik,” as he spoke the pagan moon finally emerged from behind the far mountain range, drenching the empty sands in alien silver. “You're so perfect when you lie. You can be my crucifix- hold me up to watch me die.”
She was a killer and a keeper, he had promised himself that already. She was picking him flowers from her soul and mending the wings of a wretched fallen angel, handling the splinters of his broken halo. She would come to know him by the scars he bore and the hate that he swore by. He danced in the fires again, burnt and bleeding. He was a whore, holy, loved by many and yet still so lonely. He was barren, fruitful, bored and rarely useful- an insignificant, shiny and unique sinner seeking manic martyrdom.
Couldn’t she see?