Snippet #1558370

The Father's expression seemed pleased. He was the entirety of human error, collecting everyone's sins and displaying them behind polished glass and brass pedestals. He would force them to look down onto their own works of terrible, terrible art and watch from above, inherently aware that he was shepherding them to their own demise. It was a pitiful game he played, pitting humans against their brethren and slinking back into the darkness so he could pose as an innocent bystander. His existence was merely circumstantial, hardly perceived, and largely ignored. A puppet master toying beneath hidden agendas, concealed with imponderable strings, and never recognized for any of his execrable efforts. There would be no billboards or wanted posters displaying his feminine features; there would be no tales of the most revolting, spiteful creature infecting Humanity with its' poison; there would be no truth among the irreparable war stories that would be told. As far as they knew, the tragedy would be wholly blamed on Humanity's weakness, and its' inhabitants greed. They were evil. They'd have sunk so far down that they'd cling and grab, claw and bite, tear and rip, to reach the tops again—all for what? Family, friends, or the tendrils of humanity that they'd desperately adhere to – it didn't matter. Whatever happened, it would end their existences and he would carry on as if nothing had happened.

Mortal fools could only nurse their cuts so much, and lick the salt from their wounds. The Father understood how far weakness seeded itself, digging it's cold fingers and maintaining itself in the bellies of exhausted men. This place of war and destruction where the selfish thrive, and do-gooders die under the weight of responsibility and ignorance, the Father would continue his tyrannical reign. Greedy men were quick and eager to throw away their morals for superior supremacy. They wanted nothing more than the power that was at hand, only a few inches from their grasps. It was a beautiful sight watching the exhausted try to fight such evils, and watch them drag their bedraggled bodies across the hands; hope was fading, and his crooked fingers buried holes into their hearts. He would watch their pathetic hands raise towards the sky, cloudy eyes searching for false hopes and assistance that would never come, as he drowned their world with blood and death and agony. The immense ball of light hanging ripe in the sky would fade and die, offering nature nothing but drought. The Father would tear the entire world down to its' knees in search of his own personal reprieve. It would bend and break, it would bring him his own happiness.

Darkness. It was an old friend, always there, and always waiting. Wesley was very unlike the darkness, yet he bowed without hesitation, relishing in the comforts the Father offered. The time-weary man was the only likelihood to a friend the Father might've had – he'd been there for ages, and years, staying by his side when he'd performed his most atrocious deeds. He'd also been there when he suffered his life-threatening injury to his throat, and tended to his needs when he was bedridden. In all accords, the Father wasn't invincible, neither was he immortal. He was an essence of sublime, exponential evil. Whenever he breathed, it stunk of poison and noxious immorality. Yes—the Father had seen the morose woman tailing away into the darkness, pretending as if she'd gone on a nightly stroll. His eyes were as keen as a hawks, and his intelligence and wits even more so. The fashionable dressed man regarded his old companion between lidded eyes, slowly drawing his sleeve up so that he could wipe the slathered blood from his face. It stained his sleeves, though he took no notice. Sofia's blood mingled with his. It was nearly poetic.

The Father's shoulders strengthened considerable the further he ventured from the building, as if his entire being vibrated with rekindled energy; thrumming incandescently behind his ribcage. The further way from her, the more powerful he felt. Her gentile fingers wouldn't touch the scar marring his throat any longer, and the puckered flesh discontinued its' uncomfortable burning. Nike's complexities were uncontrollable, and her complexion elevated his rage. He couldn't stand her empathetic affection, so pathetic, so intolerable. In leaving the looming building, it was as if the cloudy veil was pulled away from his face, leaving him with a shiny, new judiciousness. A wickedness that couldn't be sated with a mere blood curse, although it would do for now. Even if they'd snuffled his gift out, it wouldn't and couldn't be wiped away as simply as a carpet stain. Already, he guessed, it might've begun burrowing doubts in their minds and filling their hearts with darkness.

Sofia's fingers snaked into his, intermingling their wounds and sending jolts of electricity down his forearm. It was nearly exhilarating, but he couldn't help believe that it was wasteful. Such strange formalities women had; curious customs and even more mystifying sentiments. Sofia was no parasitic being – the Father believed she would've made a wonderful Queen if the era called for it. She would've been strict and resolutely cruel; the true makings of a successful ruler. An indecorous rose amid the bush of jagged barbs and rotting leaves, drooping with poisonous liquors. Her dizzying petals are tinged from the lips of a devil, a core nearly ginger, continuously luring you closer, and closer, until she's captured you. She is too wild to be contained, too fierce, too stubborn, too fervent to curse all those mesmerized by her labyrinth-like petals. And she'd laugh at your arrogance. The Father had chosen her well, he complimented him more than he'd like to admit.

“A statement nonetheless,” The Father rasped, tilting his head slightly. His half-slit eyes wandered towards Vincent and lingered there, watching for the slightest movements and counting his eyelid clicks – the man could discern intentions from the most minuscule movements; the roll of the eyes, the flick of their wrists, the taut pull of their lips. He'd lived longer than any in his sick little Cruzzola family, and understood far more than he'd care to. People were simple, fickle creatures that were effortlessly manipulated, and just as conveniently discarded. Sacks of flesh, nothing more. A empty slate moulded into his own likelihood was dangerous, and so he watched the blonde-haired young man with the caution an unbothered man exuded.

Untangling his fingers from Sofia's, the Father motioned towards the black sedan. They would seek refuge back at their quarters and properly plan how to dispose of the Descendants. No doubts, Nike had placed some means of protecting on the building so that they could cultivate their abilities. They wouldn't wait to strike. They would circle like hungry sharks and savage beasts, ripping them apart so that nothing remains. The Father's eyes closed for a moment, and then opened as he meandered towards the vehicle. Nothing else needed to be said on his part. Wesley knew where they were going, and the others could discuss things as they pleased.

Mercy, however, would not come. Not for the Descendants. Not for Katrina. And not for her.