Chaos reigns, fields drench with blood. They silhouettes are chiselled upon the flames, fiery eyes watching the exploits of his cruel ally. In the vice of his right hand is a gift, a trembling body traped within an armor of gold, one he's quick to throw at Ayin's feet. " Here he is, the mighty Voivode of Transylvania. Tell me, my friend, what should we do about him ? " Leaving the fate of this man to his companion's whims, it is not only a present for his feat on the battlefield, but a test.
@monstruoasa || tfw bae brings u gifts
And Walter is never one to disappoint; the smell of human fear is thick, chokes out even the acrid rush of smoke and flame and scorched earth underfoot with his companion’s approach between the flames arching from the eerie silence of this would-be village–dragging something dressed all in gold behind him. Deliciously pitiful. It lives, this thing in Walter’s grip–draws Ayin’s cruel, feline eyes with immeasurable joy as he turns his back to bedlam and burning and approaches. With a smirk, a sneer, a flourish of both arms outstretching and setting the shuddering darkness of his cape aflutter over either shoulder. “You come bearing gifts.” A hand reaches out to graze the armoured breadth of Walter’s shoulder–greeting as much as it is gratitude (whatever twisted approximation of it exists in Ayin’s heart), as his lips split wide over the Lord’s grinning fangs. “And you flatter me thereby with your abundant generosity. My trust in you is such that you could have alone delivered him to a perfectly miserable fate–but perhaps we can agree that spoils so grand in nature are far better shared.”
Far better indeed. Something seems to all but writhe with glee in the Lord at the offering thrown to his feet–a man and his armour, the mighty reduced to the whimpering as Ayin treads a sole to their shoulder and holds them sunken into to the mud churned below. Keeps them there. Lower than filth, this once-king is made, as he reaches that grazing hand to curl beneath the point of Walter’s chin. “Good.” Praise purrs from him, dusk-like and low and whispered over the shell of the other man’s ear as his weight bares harder upon the gold glinting underfoot as the thing it holds trembles and whimpers all in vain.
“But…he would go to waste to suffer any kind of death so soon–there are always uses for even lambs that tremble in wait of the slaughter.” Ayin shakes his dark head, smile serene for all the wickedness it suggests when his gaze sinks to the fallen ruler beneath him. Indulgent. That’s all the word there is for the look rising in those fire-bright eyes, made wilder for the fire still raging about the world outside of themselves. “We do not kill him. Not so soon before he has outlived his usefulness. No. We make an example of him.” A step back. His grasp on Walter’s person recedes in tandem with the weight forced punishingly upon the fallen man’s shoulder, replaced with the swift humiliation of a foot tilting up that muddied face by the chin.
“We use him as mouthpiece for our crusade–a living demonstration to our cause. We will dismantle him for that cause, slowly, precious little by precious little.” A hand this time. Swift, sudden, fisted in the Voivode’s hair to yank him almost upright, bend that neck to an angle that dares to make his bones groan. Ayin’s gaze makes its languid, smirking way back to Walter’s face to join the almost songful joy of his resonant voice. “And what we shall do from there–we will parade his twisted, mangled body to the masses we mean to trample upon next, and let him live that agony to his last breath. With no power over his own ruined flesh–nor what tatters we leave of his mind. He will die no better than filth in the streets, only glorious in that he has told of our glory with what remains of him.”
