STARTER FOR ⤻ @risendeads . . .
within the nefarious claws of a city he resides in, taking a sin drunken crown to adorn the top of silken strands, midnight's ink bleeds upon his countenance --- the heavy mind and dead beating heart of a sovereign. rumoured immortal, half god. palms filled with stacks of fortune and yet --- with naught to lose. a soul to glide in and out of a forbidden world's realm. a divinity of the worst kind. his curse, clings to the shadow cast by very own feet. his blessing, rests upon the digits of jewel clad fingers --- to command a man's soul to split from his body on the very same day of death sentence given. he's made a sport out of it --- this well tuned machine of a boy turned man. a flipped coin of all tails and no heads. there is no victory and no loss. in this space, carved out of a liminal frame, a weaponless truce of highest crime sits at a singular, long table. beneath the splendour of glacial chandeliers, polished marble and the most pristine --- infested by ravenous beasts, to put all deadly sins to shame. a church of saints of sin --- built upon a throne of broken bone, rivers of blood and an intoxication with the utmost saccharine. his halo glimmers in the grandest prism --- light to break upon the surface of a thousand splintering diamonds --- stretched, adorned upon midnight's zenith. worn on tall shoulders, mounting all that had once been abandoned. his head sinks beneath the surface --- below the tides that are yet to claim him, phantoms --- stuck to sleepless nocturnes. seated upon smoke - clad ceilings, glacial windows. solely by a moon's company --- soaked in the cool rays of eternal nights and late dawns.
muted murmurs, clinking of crystalline glasses and hushed whispers --- amongst a crowd of hungry beasts, monsters --- alike him. silhouettes of faces, waltzing within a swimming mind --- drowning into the sweet lullaby of ambern liquor in his own drink. upon the edges of pooling crowds --- red velvet walls and mahogany tables, night's breeze cooling heated skin. lighter clicks open, its bright flame hissing against rolled tobacco --- remains of a frown, his deeper inhale drowned in tarred smoke to fill lungs, burn his phantoms into ash. he likes it silenced, drowned, suffocated and shot --- at whatever expense may come. delegation of an eternal monarch --- or so is he believed, to reside within a body mutilated by bullets carrying his name --- poisoned daggers and the hands of killers. he's danced to these waltzes until the lights would flicker out --- until even such blurred threshold of life and death dissolved into nothingness. the bitter taste of a numb, sleepless nocturne. of emptied glasses, full ashtrays. spilled souls, drowning thoughts --- these days were to melt into the coming and going of a conscious sharp enough to lead his empire of monopoly --- but never enough to live.
it's buried, strangled by very own making --- to not spill within the reflection of low hues. laced by a boredom, the slipping precision of own movement, as cigarette slides between lithe fingers. only now, does prior lowered crown blink to perceive the utmost inconvenient thorn of eye within the corner of vision --- with neither sentiment nor colour of countenance to change. don't make him laugh. the remains of a family, never to shake hands with --- by another failed attempt at damning this man for death. alike half of the hall under the festive, false dome of angel frescos --- funny. it's funny. tongue flickers over dry lips. cannot help but press them into the thinnest line, bite away the mild satisfaction over how fate had dealt this hand, in the very end. things don't change. leisure steps taken towards their direction. his head swims --- blinding sunlight within broken vision, the barrel of a rifle against own chest. it splits his thoughts --- ghosts with whispers, deafening against his dull hearing. halting next to sheol, enough space for another person to cut in between them --- drag is taken, irritated indifference to burn a hole into own soul. " are you armed ? " neither is crown turned towards them --- but low volume is not meant to be heard by someone else --- dripping in apparent, unforgotten conflict of sentiment, faux nonchalance. are you going to kill me again ? gonna take your chance ? lowered cigarette, ashes flicked off as hues follow the curling smoke, " must have gotten lots of training with marsia, hm ? " not in surprise --- but something to colour own amusement. glance to scan the crowd inside. the stench of death --- as saccharine as a forgotten addiction.
