ardyn izunia belongs in the garbage bin. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
daemonized) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
finalflight2018-06-12 08:33 am
daemonized) wrote in finalflight2018-06-12 08:33 am
PSL; [TEN MILLION WAYS TO FADE]
Gralea was nothing more than a wasteland of cold and snow these days. Shiva’s corpse, jutting out from the great expanse of white like shale reaching towards grey skies, had affected the area in ways one might expect from a dead astral — an endless blizzard, cutting cold swirling and snaking through the Imperial heartland, unending.
The lifelessness of such a place is reflected within Zegnautus keep, all inhuman metal and loud, echoing sounds through empty corridors. A cold chill, seeping through hairline cracks of the acute, military architecture. No sound of human voices, but the occasional clang of something moving a distance away; heavy footsteps, metal scraping against metal, as if dragging across the floor.
Within the Keep, there were plenty of places to keep prisoners sequestered — better yet, there were plenty of places to keep them subdued, bodies pinned up against steel, wrists kept restrained, a parodic caricature of a crucifixion. Bruised and battered, cold and unattended to; such is the state that Ardyn’s left Prompto. Alone, drifting in and out of consciousness, for hours now.
But there are footsteps that approach, ringing out with some dread tempo. An easy, almost lazy gait, drawing nearer. Ardyn Izunia enters the large cell, passing by a dirtied, flat metallic surgical table in which he removes his hat and places it upon. He moves towards the young man, this poor boy, and stops a mere foot away from where he’s been strung-up like some discarded toy.
A hand comes out, fingers grasping at Prompto’s chin. Nails bite into skin as he lifts his head up, at an angle that would allow the young man to look at his face if were to return to the waking world.
"Wake up." His voice is almost a drawl. Low, predatory intonations laced with amusement. "You’ve been resting long enough."
The lifelessness of such a place is reflected within Zegnautus keep, all inhuman metal and loud, echoing sounds through empty corridors. A cold chill, seeping through hairline cracks of the acute, military architecture. No sound of human voices, but the occasional clang of something moving a distance away; heavy footsteps, metal scraping against metal, as if dragging across the floor.
Within the Keep, there were plenty of places to keep prisoners sequestered — better yet, there were plenty of places to keep them subdued, bodies pinned up against steel, wrists kept restrained, a parodic caricature of a crucifixion. Bruised and battered, cold and unattended to; such is the state that Ardyn’s left Prompto. Alone, drifting in and out of consciousness, for hours now.
But there are footsteps that approach, ringing out with some dread tempo. An easy, almost lazy gait, drawing nearer. Ardyn Izunia enters the large cell, passing by a dirtied, flat metallic surgical table in which he removes his hat and places it upon. He moves towards the young man, this poor boy, and stops a mere foot away from where he’s been strung-up like some discarded toy.
A hand comes out, fingers grasping at Prompto’s chin. Nails bite into skin as he lifts his head up, at an angle that would allow the young man to look at his face if were to return to the waking world.
"Wake up." His voice is almost a drawl. Low, predatory intonations laced with amusement. "You’ve been resting long enough."
NO CRYING
"Wh-what...?"
Prompto stared at the smear of red on Ardyn's fingers. The word came out nearly soundless, mostly breath, frightened and confused. Maybe if he could keep Ardyn talking, he'd stop using the knife. But probably not.