#wargoer

𝐈𝐍     𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒     𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐎     𝐎𝐅     𝐅𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒     ,          𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐏𝐒𝐄𝐃     𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐘          &&          arduous     grief     faced     intemerate     truth     :          cold          &&          relentless     ,          a     privileged     gasp     above     catacombs          &&          intestate .               he     halts     mid     -     step     ,          gorgonized     in     an     icy     sweat .               yet     nothing     dwells     past     the     walls     of     cothurn     trees     ;          not     a     soul     unbelonging     of     a     prey     ,          trembling     like     ground     foxes     in     their     covers .          burrowed     time     and     borrowed     world     and     borrowed     eyes     with     which     to     sorrow     it .               he     forces     a     breath     ,          pushing     aside     the     tarpaulin     of     paranoia          &&          sifting     woods     to     toss     to     the     fire .                    ❝               then     you     understand     my     haste .               ❞                    chestnut     eyes     whisk     with     flame          /          𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔩𝔲𝔰𝔱     sheathed     furtively     in     elytra     ,          in     his     pulse          /          heart     swelled     by     the     faces     of     his     brethren .          

          mother     church     tells     us     if     our     dead     kin     are     sainted     we     may     pray     to     them .               she     does     not     say     if     they’ll     speak     back     ,          in     dreams     or     out .

BLOOD      ABLOOM      UPON      COBBLESTONE      ;            THE      PERCH      OF      VULTURES            &            CROWS  .                  this      rebirth      from      asomatous            &            trench            &            tundra     ,            baptized      ‘twixt      the      crossing      of      𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧            &            styx  .                  adorned      by      corona      of      calla      lily      ,            the      weeping      of      mothers      in      unison      of      symphonies            /            comfort      of      ravens      in      the      scheme      of      thievery  .                  adoration      of      wrox      upon      sinew  .                  reeks      of      bloodletting            /            the      fragrance      of      𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐚      ,            my      deathless      death            &            absence      of      oblivion            &            abyss  .                  gyved      by      cerebral      aponia            /            accending      with      inferno            &            wildfire      ,            the      rapture      of      godless      ruin            &            imbrued      by      arctic      sutures  .                              ❛                        ‘               ᴛʜᴏsᴇ      ᴅᴀʏ      ᴀʀᴇ      ʟᴏɴɢ      ᴘᴀsᴛ  .               ’                        ❜                              a      smirk  .                  inhumed      by      snowcap      ,            the      valley      of      sepulcher            /            cothurnal      avalanche      bundling      in      storm  .

❛                        ɪ      sᴇᴇ      ʟᴇᴠɪᴀᴛʜᴀɴ      sʟᴜᴍʙᴇʀɪɴɢ      ɪɴ      ʜɪs      ᴅᴇɴ      ,       &       ʜᴇ      ɪs      ɴᴏᴛ      ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇɴᴇᴅ      ʙʏ      sᴛᴇᴇʟ            &            sᴡᴏʀᴅ  .                        ❜

   𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈    |    accepting

nimble    ,        though    still        does    he    initially    trip    over    his    feet    to    keep    up    with    the    other’s    stride    ;            an    energetic    one    of    his    own    ,        never    upon    his    toes            (        &        yet    always    moving    too    quick        )  .                    fending    shackles    of    snow    ,        weariness    ,        these    lungs    burn    with    strain        &        uneven    breaths    ;                this    heart    𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐒        &        threatens    to    break    through    its    cage  .                        ❛                    sounds    like    a    lot    more    viciousness    than    victory    ,        if    you    ask    me  .                    ❜                        seldom    does    larynx    rest    ,        does    a    child    grasp    the    concept    of    𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞        &        tamed    curiosity    ——    -            instead    lightning    strikes    with    impulsivity    ,        inattentive    to    where    it    lands    ,        merely    to    what    may    lure    it  .

          ❝    𝐚𝐡,    𝐚𝐡.    ❞      𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐝,    cant forwards      &.      chin tucked to embroidered hem.      ❝    i went to your house,    kratos.    i knocked,    ❞      a pause for emphasis.      a tattooed arm gestures to kratos then opens in a wide arc.      ❝    on your door.    ❞      he steps forwards once      &.      then again.      𝐬𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰.     snake measuring prey.      what he sees before him is an effrontery.      a gauche debauchery of a false god at the center of his perfunctory ambling.      𝘈𝘙𝘌 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘛𝘐𝘙𝘌𝘋 𝘖𝘍 𝘉𝘓𝘖𝘖𝘋𝘚𝘏𝘌𝘋,  𝘎𝘖𝘋 - 𝘒𝘐𝘓𝘓𝘌𝘙 ?      the iron - scent,    the cloying copper of a world inundated by plague      &.      blood at the hands of the ashen - fiend.      so much,    therein,    wholly unnecessary.       ❝    i do not want war,    kratos.  much less,  do i want a war with you.    ❞

          he stopped before him.      his wool cloak swirling around his knees.      the sun hung west,    a winter - white      &.      lucent glass eye watching them,    heimal light reflecting long blades from the gold damask on his shoulder.    in motes that sifted      &.      spun,    sliding away like optic strobes.      ❝    correct me,    if i am mistaken,    but this    —    all this prophecy    —    it has nothing to do with you.      i asked that you not get involved.      i was willing to overlook the death of my boy …      &.      still your answer is no.    ❞      (  there is the subtlest shift in his demeanor,    from this ,    this sympathetic diplomat  to reveal just a hint of the hardened      &.      serrated edges of an authoritative man.      edges that would seem unpleasant to touch.      his face transforms under this paperthin veil of farce,    solidifying into a demurring austerity.  )      ❝    you wouldn’t know peace if it were standing right in front of you,    looking you in the eye.    if you did not want war,    you at the very least would not have gone looking for týr.      &.      yet you did.  what did you hope to gain from it ?      hm ?      you throw a bone      &.      you expect for a dog to come running towards it,    kratos,    but i didn’t think you were one.    ❞      

    𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐀𝐈𝐑  𝐈𝐒  𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓  ,    𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄  —  in  the  manner  it  may  only  be  weathered  by  man  -  made  disturbances  or  lindwyrms  masticating  at  the  yggdrasil’s  roots,    the  occasional  susurrus  of  leaves  from  ratatoskr’s  skittering    &    the  tumult  of  kratos’  footsteps  forwards,  each  strike  upon  the  floor  shuddering  like  a  pulse  that  could  be  felt  beneath  their  feet.    

he pulls himself to attention, watching the words spoken. body filled on a     moment in which settlements of fire dried his river - as his name peeled to bone. washed away in a picket of     TEETH    , god thrown to show how unworthy he truly was . and so he catches the ruins and strikes matches to burn what was , into what would be. and he sees himself       a jagged mass running circuits.     to attempt a finding of all that was still missing. he sees this man - no giant a kin to blessing where he was a limb of.         ABNORMAL    castings. turning his own needed love away from him.

he chews down his throat and wonders a space to eat      ideals  made on whims and fancies .         and so he points his eyes to unguided readings. is he changing or is he wanting something else.  something easier to pry out if he  LIES    it all away.