#misreputed

@misreputed

The appearance of an angel is a lying tale of fake saints and fake prophecies. She is the one who will always remain in the background, a tool to use and a tool to live as while their creator lived and breathed. However, the eyes of gold watch her 'senior' with a surprising lack of interest despite the calm and collected smile. From the side, another would think she greets an old friend, someone with whom she is happy to reunite with whom she is happy to share these moments of reunions. They would be wrong, they would not know the lying temptations hidden beneath the Primarch of Control's distant gaze.

You've learned to smile. You were not created to smile so beautifully yet coldly. You were created to examine, deduct, and use the most pragmatic ways of assisting your creator.

The blood spilled brings no satisfaction nor interest to her, she's an executioner who's been desensitized to Primarchs and Primals falling, breaking to molecular level. All as Lucilius wished, all according to his grand plan, all according to what he wanted. Morael will eat their hearts (cores) and be the beast to chase down all the rabbits. As their creator intended... Yes, she will carry the face of an angel with hands tainted in the blood of others. Her visage will be one of silver and gold, but her path will continue to be drenched in blood, gore, and cries of fear. As intended. As it's always been intended.

If only she can wrap her fingers around his neck... and squeeze, break every bone in his body.... watch his smile disappear...

They're all far too gone. The first three creations. The trinity. The first three to bear the weight of their creator's bitterness. The golden one, the fallen one, and the hidden one. They're all too gone and there will never be a way to go back to fix any and all mistakes done.

"I do," she responds, giving him the sweetest of smiles despite lacking any warmth behind it. The smile on her face is ever-present but it's distant and cold, chillingly so when she speaks of how there is joy in seeing him bleed. The serpent will bleed but he might as well get off it, no? That's how he's always been. Unbreakable, malleable, malicious, and selfish yet only selfless for their creator's attention. Can she call him pathetic when she is the only one who cannot deny their creator's word? Ah, what tragedy. How she envies his so-called freedom. "But it's not enough to satisfy me even a bit, dear Belial. An eye candy is only good for a short bit."

The saccharine sweetness to the way she says his name is said with a twisted light to her golden gaze. The corner of her lips twitches as she brings her hand to hide her lips behind it, letting out a soft chuckle as if the mask of soft coldness will slip to reveal yet another twisted monster created by Lucilius. One who's never been allowed to showcase emotion or even experience it to avoid inefficiency.

"You will never bleed enough to truly make me experience joy," she steps closer, the sound of her anklets and her bracelets rings with each move. Barefoot, she walks around without a care in the world. After all, even if she steps in blood spilled by him, it will not be enough to get her to care. As their creator intended. "But it does not mean I will deny you if you'll seek me out. I promise... when you finally wish to stop bleeding (living)," she pinches the fabric of her skirt and bows ever so lightly, theatrics and lies will forever be the vices to dance between the broken tests. "I will accept you, and I will grant you a swift release. For good time's sake."

Morael looks back up at the one who was created before her, her coldly soft smile returns to the ethereal visage.

does aphelios take the extra five minutes carefully stacking his glass on top of a rickety pile of ever-growing dishes instead of doing them himself? yes.

it's the principle. each of them has assigned chores; there's no reason why kayn makes himself the exception.

where is he?

a man on a mission, aphelios hunts down the vocalist, phone in hand. when he finally corners the damn rascal, he presses PLAY on his TTS app:

@misreputed

A drink, huh?

Will just a glass be enough? No, not even an ocean will satiate this emptiness and this hollowness. A bottle will be like a drop in that scarlet ocean. Is a drink such a necessary thing? Perhaps, Belial is bored and she is quite sure that Lucilius just kicked him out for interrupting his results. He even told her to not bother him for the next two days, which means that she has a very rare time off. Quit ea strange sensation it is: doing nothing, having no tasks to perform. The idleness grinds her productive mindset, the one their creator made them out to be.

The Primarch of Cunning must be enjoying freedom she isn't allowed to have, and yet, he yearns for Lucilius' attention. Why then he made Belial like this and granted him so much freedom? Why did he give him everything she wanted? This freedom, this rebellion, this indulgence, this seeming fullness. He wastes it on the black hole that is Lucilius' indifference and bitterness. The man with eyes blue and cold as ice will never look at him.

They were all just additional experiments after Lucifer. They are not perfect. They will never be perfect.

However, instead of rejecting his unnecessary offers, Morael glances at the drink in his hand and thinks to herself that - mayhaps - this can be a small enjoyment of freedom from Lucilius' shackles. Her role is obvious only to those who know, the executor and the chain. She is the tool to control other tools. The perfect tool, the Primarch of Control, the Mirror of Lucilius. She hates the one who created her and gave her such disgusting purpose as Lucilius wishes for Bahamut's answers.

Does Belial see the similarities? Is this why he still circles around? Is this why Lucifer wishes to befriend her? She is well-aware that there are primals who wish to befriend her solely because they feel she is lonely, but it's not that. There is simply no need for unwanted company. All of them are just tools serving their own purpose, dancing under this own tunes for the role their creator chose for them.

But only Lucifer and Belial will forever escape the power of Her Word. No, the power of His word. Their Amen.

"Your offer is appreciated," Morael says, but instead of picking up another glass and pouring a drink for herself, there is audacity speaking in her next actions. The Primarch of Control approaches him, her steps seemingly leading to the bottle that stands next to him, but instead of taking another glass, her dainty fingers take his glass for herself. A swift action, but one that still doesn't bring out even an ounce of emotion from her. She is envious of him and his freedom. It's childish how she does this if you are aware of her internal state (no one is, no one aside from Lucilius), but what is his - in this moment just a glass - she'll take for herself. Just one time, she'll rebel. In this foolish and inconsequential way. "Thank you for the drink."

And so, she takes a sip from once-his glass. Eyes of gold do not look at him, not yet, her body language is closed off and she shows that there are still countless walls to be broken to ever figure out what crosses her mind. It does not matter if he already drank from this glass. Actually, if he did, it means she can be a step above to to finish this glass and she took away what was originally his.

But then, a thought crosses her mind. As she finds herself enjoying the taste, eyes of gold look at Belial. She studies him for a bit, as if thinking about what she wants to say.

Is rebellion within Belial what Lucilius cannot accept? The imperfection he doesn't want to admit? His denial of his creation so often is unique. Such obvious favoritism isn't beneficial in all but one scenario: it was intentional. How befitting.

Hm, maybe this can work...

"The taste is exquisite," she admits, holding the glass between her fingers and lifting the glass just a bit above her eyes level to see how the light reflects in the glass and in this liquid. She swirls it around just a bit before returning to look at the personification of cunning. "You have my attention, Belial. What do you wish to gain from this?"

How disgusting, she finds herself thinking. She speaks in the same way Lucilius does. This higher than thou voice, this authority, this cold and analytical way of viewing others. The envy must be his too. The yearning for freedom from shackles must be the same. Is this why Belial is here? Because she is Lucilius' mirror? The perfect copy of his imperfections, his original lore, his inability to be free. Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting.

“Dude, it’s NOT funny!”

It wasn’t too difficult to get Ezreal on edge and upset about something—But Kayn was a god when it came to pressing every single one of Ezreal’s buttons. No matter what he did or what he said, there was something that Kayn could always focus on and prove and prod at the Pop Star Prince, and each time he did, he succeeded in staying an argument.

“You’re an asshole, y’know that?” Ezreal seethed, trying to get into Kayn’s space, having to get on his tiptoes to even get remotely close to him ( but the bastard was still way too tall….).

just more misc memes

how curious it is; that despite all measures for the chemical compounds being perfectly settled and the blueprints for his creation being absolute, there were still parameters that were out of his control. where did this personality come from? this much sharpness and greed, a twisted mirror if you will. certainly not from his calculations. it makes his too thin ( imperfect, imperfect! ) fingers itch with the desire to rip something apart; rip it all and leave it like the creator did to him. blue eyes, void as the night, close as he inhales. lucilius' memory is something he is proud of – he remembers the day this wretched creature crawled out of its angelic cocoon, big devilish wings snapping open and the sparkle of something within his eyes.

something. something. he cannot tell. everything irks him.

the too thin fingers come to belial's sharp nose and twist it, light punishment for the intrusion " we have no time. " besides, the astral is much aware his creation knows the answer, he did make him the archangel of cunning after all " come, the rebellion is about to start. "

@misreputed

Instead of any bright reaction to the reappearance of someone from such a long lost past, Morael leans back against the luxurious bathtub’s wall, one hand hanging off to show her lack of tension upon the entrance of someone so familiar. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? For her to be found and for her to be visited, especially after everything that happened. Lucifer was now the ruler and she used the death of their creator to slip out like sand between fingers. However, the serpent is a cunning archangel and it’s expected he’s found her. After so many years.

Morael scoffs, gesturing at for the two women to bring her the towels and a change of clothes. They do not show an ounce of reaction towards the intruder, solely training their gazes on their superior. And so, they hurry up to bring over the towels to wipe off the water off the porcelain skin and to offer a white robe to put on.

“I hoped you would forget about me since I couldn’t expect you to actually die,” she speaks rather impassively, giving her once superior a look over. The life of hedonistic selfish pleasures are there to fill the apathy, the void, the hollowness. For the one who’s been ruled by numbers, deductions and analysis, this life is too different compared to before but she enjoys these small instances of short-lived interest one after another. “It’s never a good time to visit when you are not wanted.”

As she gets out of the bathtub, her servants immediately cover her body from the sight of the visitor. Not that she cares, seeming as she let them do their job. Gently and carefully dry her skin, putting a robe on her, kissing the back of her hand and then bowing while carrying out the towels without sparing a glance to Belial. They obey her and this is her turf, but they are just mortals. They are mayflies: born yesterday, dying tomorrow.

With a robe on, barefoot and lacking the familiar accessories on her wrists and ankles (the shackles), Morael approaches the large mirror without hurrying to pay attention to her ‘guest’. As she mentioned, he was not a welcome guest. Not him, not Lucifer.

As she sits down on the chair, taking a hair brush to take care of her long silveer locks, her golden gaze finally meets the eyes of ruby. With a small roll of her eyes, Morael begins to speak:

“We do not have anything to discuss, you and I. What connected us once is dead and he should stay dead,” the Primarch of Control speaks clearly but does not raise her voice. It lacks any passion, any irritation, anything. Monotone and apathetic, but her eyes are as sharp as always, watching and observing, calculating every move and wondering what that silver tongue of his will create to make her listen… as he made so many others. “But I cannot expect you to listen, can I, Belial?”

At the end, she is satisfied with her brushing and gets up again. As if he’s not there, she continues to doll herself up for the sake of personal self-satisfaction. Instead of facing him, she is watching the Archangel of Cunning through the mirror, waving to him that he can either come closer or just stay there. The sweet smell of soap and cleanliness fills the room, humidity settling down after the water from the bathtub has been drained.