Deus Gor Bel
Character
"Dredge, before you stands the might of frost; plead, filth - waxen in ash, for now the sun stands shrouded, clouded by the essence of a thousand clouds! Where the light once fell, now only dark remains; your spark fades, pray to the warmth all you like but only cold falls upon your face - flecks of ice: snow. Not even the rain shall grace you, you-"
"Shut the hell up already and get the blasted thing over with!" stung Deus, spitting the words with force, intending to silence the second of the pair inhabiting the lonesome room; they both sat, though one with a lot more ease: the man, across from the aged mercenary, drew locks of black cloth which swathed his thin frame over his head, a mask - drawn taught over his scalp, as to leave no room for even a single hair - wrought in pale-fleshed bone, carved from a great beast's femur: a kaleesh, garnished as if in preparation for mourning. His eyes held no wetness for sorrow however; they were cold, frozen much like the blizzards he spoke of, and reptilian, hungrily imbibing the visage of his prey: Deus, shackled in electrified fetters to the adjacent chair, clearly not fond of his predicament or his companion's famished gaze. He stiffened, as if preparing for some lengthy struggle; yet, the promise of freedom did not seem realistic enough, and he abandoned his attempts, loosening his muscles and falling slack in his chair, sulking.
The kaleesh chuckled, his bony shoulders heavy with each gasp as if the air was forever at risk from being torn from his lungs. He drew a hand beneath the curtains of his attire, long nails clicking along metal; his eyes remaining focused upon the defeated captive. "Deus," he heaved, "You know, far more than I ever could, the consequences for failure; you were tasked by us for one directive only, just one simple objective - you were hired from a punctual sensation of paranoia, not upon the reflection of its difficulty nor risk. Even honest excuses would suffice, perhaps even have been forgiven - but you..." His hand drew forth a lightsabre, elongated in silver metal, ornate by bronzium hooks which blossomed forth from the emitter and ran down its shaft; an intertwined symbol, cast in a fearsome semblance to the squalor of the kaleesh's decorum: that fiendish, ethereal sickness that seeped from him. Deus knew not how he recognized such pestilence of the soul, but he felt it nearly palpable.
"I will show you not punishment; I will show you understanding."
"Shut the hell up already and get the blasted thing over with!" stung Deus, spitting the words with force, intending to silence the second of the pair inhabiting the lonesome room; they both sat, though one with a lot more ease: the man, across from the aged mercenary, drew locks of black cloth which swathed his thin frame over his head, a mask - drawn taught over his scalp, as to leave no room for even a single hair - wrought in pale-fleshed bone, carved from a great beast's femur: a kaleesh, garnished as if in preparation for mourning. His eyes held no wetness for sorrow however; they were cold, frozen much like the blizzards he spoke of, and reptilian, hungrily imbibing the visage of his prey: Deus, shackled in electrified fetters to the adjacent chair, clearly not fond of his predicament or his companion's famished gaze. He stiffened, as if preparing for some lengthy struggle; yet, the promise of freedom did not seem realistic enough, and he abandoned his attempts, loosening his muscles and falling slack in his chair, sulking.
The kaleesh chuckled, his bony shoulders heavy with each gasp as if the air was forever at risk from being torn from his lungs. He drew a hand beneath the curtains of his attire, long nails clicking along metal; his eyes remaining focused upon the defeated captive. "Deus," he heaved, "You know, far more than I ever could, the consequences for failure; you were tasked by us for one directive only, just one simple objective - you were hired from a punctual sensation of paranoia, not upon the reflection of its difficulty nor risk. Even honest excuses would suffice, perhaps even have been forgiven - but you..." His hand drew forth a lightsabre, elongated in silver metal, ornate by bronzium hooks which blossomed forth from the emitter and ran down its shaft; an intertwined symbol, cast in a fearsome semblance to the squalor of the kaleesh's decorum: that fiendish, ethereal sickness that seeped from him. Deus knew not how he recognized such pestilence of the soul, but he felt it nearly palpable.
"I will show you not punishment; I will show you understanding."