Beginnings of Molder...
Posted: Wed Jun 10, 2015 3:14 pm
The curvature of the blade struck outwards, worming half way into the soft curve of Molder’s cheek.
Molder chuckled; gave a facsimile look of hatred in mock-amusement, as his enemy belatedly raised a shield against his descending sword.
Steel-wrapped fingers barbed deep into the taut flesh of his forearm; the sword exploding a precise hole through the shield's fragility and freezing steel finding purchase in the belly shaking like an eel out of water.
Blood slobbered from the glinting steel embedding inwards full-hilt, and dribbled unto the dark-veined floor of the temple; skeleton fingers directing the manoeuvre... as Molder roared seemingly primordial unchanged curses in his enemy's painstruck, comatose morphing face; his bloodjustice flowing from his soul to accentuate his enemy’s belittlement.
"I thought you were a reporter!? If the information is damning you let everyone know. Social justice against the oaths of the powers-that-be!" Molder screamed.
His scream a horror in comparison to Molder's; like a somersault turning over in sulfur oozing lungs, It poisoned the air, turned his insides grotesque. Molder's vision shot down to his metal-wrapped fists, and he ripped one gauntlet off. He bore his fingers into the gaping fleshy hole. PUlled.
Chunks of flesh flashed upwards in the desert heat that manifested an aching gale through the swell of monochrome clouds and the slits of windows.
Molder’s fists came whizzing down; viscous blood rebounding. A purplish smear burned-in to his enemy's thigh; sending his nerve endings thawing out more misery.
At great length, he watched that stupid sense of dominance disssappear on the would-be corrupter of the media. He had habituated and chiseled his reactions against this type of threat. In this void, he found the freedom to fight for victory, or these priceless realization filled moments of clearness he utilized in the eye of a wild all that mattered contest.
In this realization of his enemy’s hate only being fear...
He looked down at the corpse... of this traitor against journalism. And left Athkatla behind, to find promise within Baldur’s Gate. His corpseclad face showing nothing besides overlapping thoughts of fix-less judgement and the faith in his satirical craft... nourishing the bonds of his mind as the words rolled from his lips, with a orchestral chastisement.
“So he expected a schism. Bring it... bring it... bring it....”
Molder walked through the desert like an astral spirit, unaware of the cruel rattle snake and cactus menacing realities existing among him.
His thoughts whistling back to what Charles had told him and how he must seek out the cadre of writers who felt their talents had been unfinished and their justice... their summoning of void not yet incurred...
Molder chuckled; gave a facsimile look of hatred in mock-amusement, as his enemy belatedly raised a shield against his descending sword.
Steel-wrapped fingers barbed deep into the taut flesh of his forearm; the sword exploding a precise hole through the shield's fragility and freezing steel finding purchase in the belly shaking like an eel out of water.
Blood slobbered from the glinting steel embedding inwards full-hilt, and dribbled unto the dark-veined floor of the temple; skeleton fingers directing the manoeuvre... as Molder roared seemingly primordial unchanged curses in his enemy's painstruck, comatose morphing face; his bloodjustice flowing from his soul to accentuate his enemy’s belittlement.
"I thought you were a reporter!? If the information is damning you let everyone know. Social justice against the oaths of the powers-that-be!" Molder screamed.
His scream a horror in comparison to Molder's; like a somersault turning over in sulfur oozing lungs, It poisoned the air, turned his insides grotesque. Molder's vision shot down to his metal-wrapped fists, and he ripped one gauntlet off. He bore his fingers into the gaping fleshy hole. PUlled.
Chunks of flesh flashed upwards in the desert heat that manifested an aching gale through the swell of monochrome clouds and the slits of windows.
Molder’s fists came whizzing down; viscous blood rebounding. A purplish smear burned-in to his enemy's thigh; sending his nerve endings thawing out more misery.
At great length, he watched that stupid sense of dominance disssappear on the would-be corrupter of the media. He had habituated and chiseled his reactions against this type of threat. In this void, he found the freedom to fight for victory, or these priceless realization filled moments of clearness he utilized in the eye of a wild all that mattered contest.
In this realization of his enemy’s hate only being fear...
He looked down at the corpse... of this traitor against journalism. And left Athkatla behind, to find promise within Baldur’s Gate. His corpseclad face showing nothing besides overlapping thoughts of fix-less judgement and the faith in his satirical craft... nourishing the bonds of his mind as the words rolled from his lips, with a orchestral chastisement.
“So he expected a schism. Bring it... bring it... bring it....”
Molder walked through the desert like an astral spirit, unaware of the cruel rattle snake and cactus menacing realities existing among him.
His thoughts whistling back to what Charles had told him and how he must seek out the cadre of writers who felt their talents had been unfinished and their justice... their summoning of void not yet incurred...