SUPREME IN WAR

SHE  IS  BATHED  IN  COQUELICOT  &  CRUOR  GALOR.    blood  glissades  as  rivers  wrapped  redolent,  rufuous  agonies   u n d e r l i n i n g   the  further  paling  pallor  of  flesh   (   the  flesh  forged  to  die,  )  forged  to  be  a  punching  bag  of  those   older  –––––––––––––––––––––––––   stronger.  a  lesson  that  lays  wrought  on  skin  first  by  her  father  then  her  mother    &   now  her  brother.  the  word  tastes  bitter.  it  did  not  fit  between  the  sharpness  of  her  teeth  anymore,  it  begs  to  spitted  out    &   renounced.  with  the  excruciating  pain  throbbing  in  leg  ricocheting  up  her  body,  bones  instinctively  compulsively  shaking,  hand  acting  like  armor  feels  the  cruel,  unnatural  curve  of  limb.  she  refused  to  cry.  she  refused  to  be  rendered  weak.   pathetic.   anger  swells   in  chest  filling  the  blank  gaps  between  her  ribs  with  every  labored  breath  beneath  breast,  red  seeping  behind  eyes  comforting  like  a  hug  welcoming  her  home.  her  glare  held  the  rage  of  an  ocean,  daggering  the  outline  of     him   for  the  loss  of  her  leg,  her  speed      &     the  pain  licking  flames  in  her  chest,  tissue  devoured  into  ash.  

are  you  finished,  κόρη ?   &   she  realizes  then  from  peripheral  view  she  hates  the  hue  of  her  hair  now.  she  wanted  to  painted  black.  she  feels   remnants   of  strength  coming  from  her  mother’s  word.  methodically,  meticulously,  monotonously  body  swiveled   &   pirouetted  until  she  could  stand  on  one  foot,  knowing  if  she  applied  pressure  on  the  other,  another  break  would  ensue.  knowing  if  she  applied  pressure,  her  leg  may  not  heal  to  its  original  form.    and   HE   did   that.    she  didn’t  think  it  was  possible  to  despise   another  man  like  she  did  her  father   &   it  felt   right.  fingers  curled  into  fists  carrying  brawls.  

                ❝    ––––––––––––––––––   no.     ❞    she  stops  fighting  when  she  can’t  anymore.   it’s  the  first  time  she  hear  cacophonies  of  screams  thriving  in  the  pit  of  her  throat,  kill  her  !   kill  her  !   as  vermillion  flowed. 

                 BATTLE IS HER ART       & destruction her weapon of choice.         even now predatory eyes    d a n c e    over wounded leg & marvel at the elegance, the  poetry                             how better to take down an opponent than to make it so they cannot flee ??   her precious, ruthless son                        she sees in him none of the INFERNO but the  quiet devastation  so oft forgotten in history       (      yet no less LETHAL     ).          his future stretches before timeless eyes,       the mosaic of tales long past and yet to come    w e a v i n g     together in pattern she believes knows will follow  ::        battle-born boy turned conquering crusader.         THOUSANDS will bend at his command           (              and millions more will FALL          ).        a war churns on the horizon                      the work of tireless sister bending the world to her whim                    and her son shall lead this world to ruin.      she sees it. she tastes it. she knows it.           damn that meddlesome mortal who would dare attempt to twist her spawn to another fate                          bloodshed sees this time that she is the victor in cold cruelty cast in son’s eyes. 

                      &    don’t forget her dear, glorious, IRREPRESSIBLE daughter.      her sweet deadly κόρη.         so eager to please,              so desperate for APPROVAL.            she wishes to see her taken apart piece by piece and put back precisely to bloodshed’s preferences.      she craves the sight of those rebellious,        awful bones    s n a p p e d    into bits and molded back together ::         something new ;; something BETTER.         oh but she has plans for precious daughter         (       so kind of uncle dearest to keep bringing her back to play           )

                     carmine lips part to reveal BESTIAL FANGS,            saccharine purr turning to vehement snarl. 

                BONE SNAPPING REVERBERATES       like a gunshot against cavernous walls underlying moody manor.         muffled scream    p i e r c e s   suffocating silence,     the earth around them seeming to SWALLOW IT WITH FERVOR ::     gaia accepts sanguine tribute with a smile,            the great mother delighting in crimson mire.     soldier stands ramrod straight,          body tensed and ready though opponent lies prone upon ground underfoot,     thin spindly limbs tangled but for the cruel twist of lower leg pulled protectively toward chest         (        as though that could spare her further injury, should he wish it        ).      eyes are cold as oceanus’ deepest reach,       AMBIVALENT as the morae as they unspool thread and measure the lives of all in decrepit hands.       run ! run ! run !         the shades scream from the banks of the styx where they ROT ETERNAL                 death ! death ! death approaches !

                      ❛            OPPONENT INCAPACITATED.       no further action required.       ❜       tone holds NOTHING ::          no concern, no warmth, no AFFECTION.             soldier peers upon competitor with naught but brisk assessment analyzing posture, expression, proximity to weapon.    

@killedbyvoldemort​ liked for a starter lol [ x ]

               SICKENING CRACK       and wounded cry wrap around her like persian silk. crimson lips turn upward, sapphire eyes stained carmine with cruor sacrament spilt upon consecrated ground in temple of bloodshed. destruction looks upon champion and fallen foe with venatic verve. cloying taste of violence upon tongue as sweet and rejuvenating as ambrosia ;; she wants more ! more ! more !       soldiers weep from the pyre as ruin creeps forth, insatiable hunger demanding greater tribute than that offered. ichor sings with promise of what’s to come, what her perfect little soldier would give with but a word from her. pride swells in chest as gaze fixes upon son             and twists to displeasure when eyes sweep to fallen daughter. smile curdles and saccharine taste of blood upon lips spoils. 

         ❛  YOU’RE  AN  EXECUTIONER  THAT  doesn’t  abide  by  juries’   verdicts.   ❜

@staff how do i delete another person

         ❛    AM  I  STILL  ALIVE??    ❜

STARTER CALL ! / @carncge

        ❝      ––––––––––––––––– mother.    ❞

Ask a Killer || accepting [ x ]

     ❛       oh sweetling,         ALL kills are good kills if done right.           few die well, but any can learn to KILL well.     but yes, some kills are sweeter than others          a truth you will come to learn yourself, my dear daughter.                    perhaps the sweetest of all are the ones that you take with a fight.      I have lived countless years and KILLED far more than you can imagine.      yet the ones I remember best, the ones who age like a fine wine, the details becoming  more sharp, more delicious         are the ones I have had to struggle to kill. the ones who stood against me as my equal and who near took me with them when they FELL.              few mortals ever manage it, and the few gods that have fell by my blade always rise again, for we are the DEATHLESS, but fall they did for a time.                 and there is nothing better than killing a GOD.        ❜