Jason Momoa by Norman Jean Roy | DT Magazine
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@secondxrider
Jason Momoa by Norman Jean Roy | DT Magazine
the bar around him erupted in fanfare of roars and yells at a simple twisting of his ring adorned upon his finger; the item bestowed upon him by the creator himself emitted a devious frequency that struck primordial cravings in just the right tone that it turned brother against brother, mother against daughter.. a chair was flung behind him at one of the bystanders, shattering into shrapnel and debris with a loud bang upon impact. Casually tilting his body to dodge one of the bigger pieces, his palm smacked against the top of the bar-table and grabbed the nearest cup closest to him, swirling the dark liquid within before bringing it up to his lips.
‘ Jesus Christ, tastes like piss--’ he blurted out, spitting the alcohol across the table’s surface. ‘ Fuck. ‘
#majestic af
Jason Momoa by Norman Jean Roy | DT Magazine
‘ Keep telling me how much you despise me, how much you wish to gouge my eyes out with your thumbs-- ‘ his boots scuffed against the concrete once he had drew closer, the horseman usually had garnered the title of a swordsman over the millennia of his existence, but with time comes changes; particularly in the shape of a large rifle that stretched across his broad-shoulders.
‘ It FUELS me, y’know? It’s why I do things the way I do. ‘
‘ demonic and angelic filth is starting to bore me, brother. ‘ the curve of his broken great-sword came smashing down in a straight line, con-caving the skulls of a few of the entities in front of him with a grandeur of gurgling and blood. Using the brim of his boot to remove his weapon out from the kebab of corpses, he hoisted the blade up along his shoulders letting the entire length rest against his broad stature.
‘ The last time Heavenly forces joined with the Inferno was the Nephalem incidents that your father didn’t exactly gain control of. ‘ he still to this day renounces God as his own creator, it seemed..
Starter call?
#majestic af
Jason Momoa by Norman Jean Roy | Glamour Mexico
secondxrider:
I am the tallest of mountains I am the roughest of waves I’m the toughest of terrors I am the darkest of days
The Horseman of War written by bear.
secondxrider:
I am the tallest of mountains I am the roughest of waves I’m the toughest of terrors I am the darkest of days
The Horseman of War written by bear.
unholybloodshed:
“I can only take that as you are one of those OVERGROWN BOYS huh? I mean that response says it all.”
x || @secondxrider
‘ can you not understand sarcasm? Are you just that dense or do you enjoy the part of playing an idiot? ‘
The Great Khal
' You see, the outcome of the battle is unimportant. What matters is the chaos, and the slaughter. '
‘ You’re learning MUCH quicker than I had previously thought--’ a large, burned smile started to fill upon his features at the pride that had started to flow through his body. ‘ let the earth bathe in the blood of mortal-men, let mangled corpses scattered from anywhere and everywhere, let brother betray his mother.’ it was obvious that the speech was creating a stir within the deity himself which explained the increase of volume in his voice and the body language that started to blend together. ‘
“ Chaos is my mistress.’ ‘
Every hour wounds. The last one kills.
Even nothing cannot last forever.
That’s when I miss you most. When you’re here. When you aren’t here, when you’re just a ghost of the past or a dream from another life, it’s easier then.
There’s never been a true war that wasn’t fought between two sets of people who were certain they were in the right.
I can believe things that are true and things that aren’t true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they’re true or not.
There’s none so blind as those who will not listen.
I believe that life is a game, that life is a cruel joke, and that life is what happens when you’re alive and that you might as well lie back and enjoy it.
As sure as water’s wet and days are long and a friend will always disappoint you in the end.
I think I would rather be a man than a god.
We just keep going anyhow. It’s what we do.
Don’t start anything you’re not prepared to finish.
You are an analog girl, living in a digital world.
I want to be alive again. Not in this half-life. I want to be really alive.
It’s weird, you don’t think you can feel it, the blood, but believe me, when it stops flowing, you’ll know.
I want to feel my heart pumping in my chest again.
You know why dead people only go out at night? Because it’s easier to pass for real, in the dark.
I believe that anyone who claims to know what’s going on will lie about the little things too.
They might be dirty, and cheap, and their food might taste like shit, but at least they didn’t speak in clichés.
All your questions can be answered, if that is what you want. But once you learn your answers, you can never unlearn them.
Names come and names go.
You’re a God?
I guess it’s just another one of life’s little mysteries.
I’m tired of mysteries.
I’ll be your puppy. What do you want me to do? Chew your slippers? Piss on the kitchen floor? Lick your nose? Sniff your crotch? I bet there’s nothing a puppy can do that I can’t do!
You shine like a beacon in a dark world.
So, how’s death?
Babes. You’re dead.
If Hell is other people, then purgatory is airports.
I think I have heard of her. Isn’t she the one who killed her children?
You got to understand the god thing. It’s not magic.
Fuck you. Fuck you and fuck your mother and fuck the fucking horse you fucking rode in on.
You will not even die in battle.
You will die with a kiss on your lips and a lie in your heart.
The important thing to understand about American history is that it is fictional, a charcoal-sketched simplicity for the children, or the easily bored.
You’re fucked up, Mister. But you’re cool.
I believe that’s what they call the human condition.
I could be blindfolded and dropped into the deepest ocean and I would know where to find you.
You are the only thing I have left, the only thing that isn’t bleak and flat and gray.
I could be buried a hundred miles underground and I would know where you are.
You are the nearest thing I have to life.
They are aware of us, they fear us, and they hate us.
I’m a culture hero.
It’s easier to kill people when you’re dead yourself. I mean, it’s not such a big deal. You’re not so prejudiced any more.
It’s not what I’d want for at my funeral. When I die, I just want them to plant me somewhere warm. And then when the pretty women walk over my grave I would grab their ankles, like in that movie.
You’re walking on gallows ground and there’s a rope around your neck.
A man’s fortune is his own affair.
Gee-word?
They all do the same things. They may think their sins are original, but for the most part they are petty and repetitive.
The joy’s gone out of me like the pee from a small boy in a swimming pool on a hot day.
There are accounts that, if we open our hearts to them, will cut us too deeply.
Goodbyes are overrated.
It’s easy, there’s a trick to it, you do it or you die.
This isn’t about what is. It’s about what people think is.
You can always cheat an honest man, but it takes more work.
What makes you think I’m giving you a ride?
It’s all imaginary anyway.
Mostly you are what they think you are.
If you can’t eat it, drink it, smoke it, or snort it… then fuck it!
Tell me, as a pagan, who do you worship?
Organizing gods is like herding cats into straight lines. They don’t take naturally to it.
You should know that if we do fucking kill you, the we’ll just delete you. You got that? One click and then you’re overwriten with random ones and zeros. Undelete is not an option.
You are so full of shit. It’s a wonder your eyes don’t turn brown.
Information and knowledge: two currencies that have never gone out of style.
People populate the darkness; with ghosts, with gods, with electrons, with tales.
Don’t knock the guys on death row.
You see, the outcome of the battle is unimportant. What matters is the chaos, and the slaughter.
Liberty is a bitch who must be bedded on a mattress of corpses.
He showed me a coin trick I don’t remember how to do, gave me some bruises, and claimed he was a leprechaun.
We do not always remember the things that do no credit to us.
Too much talking these days. Talk talk talk. This country would get along much better if people learned how to suffer in silence.
You musn’t be afraid of the dark.
I’m afraid of the people in the dark.
I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with deep problems communicating.
Believe everything.
Only the gods are real.
Source
War’s arms stretch across the globe. He steals away to every corner, every street .Mesmerizing. Intoxicating. Insatiable. He isn’t satisfied until both body and mind are torn apart. Mortality is doing it to themselves; fighting, clawing, destroying. He’s a spectator, watching the humans do his work. ‘ I didn’t have to do anything. ‘ He taunts in my ear.
‘ Nothing at all. ‘
written by bear.