swathed in his customary
colors [ as if he were in great mourning ], the ouroboros embodied came to assume his seat
across from humanity corrupted by the old machines. the cobalt-umbra of the
grooves wrought by technological advancement, despite being covered by a
glamour, were unable to be concealed from the gilded one’s plague-ridden eyes. in
apropos to their arrangement from prior, betwixt their forms sat a chess-board
made from precious diamonds, hand-crafted by an artistic old man who once lived in
milan, in italy (on earth. ) the set was his final gift to a regular patron before his expiry.
❛ here we are, illusive man. i will play the black pieces. ❜
or in other words, you may make the first move. use it to your advantage.
Albert
Wesker ought to MOURN over his inhumanity. All in black, he embodied Grand
Master Death with the Illusive Man seated across from him. The iconic
cigarette dances between his slender fingers, knuckles warped &
swollen { o! merciless age conquers mortality }.
Smoke whirls past his lips. Such a rarity for this man to bestow
another with his genuine presence. He cants his head, sees his
reflection in glistening shades. There, glacial blue eyes
threaten to turn him to stone: blasted gorgon turned in
on itself. The vision implanted in his brain still remains. He’s too
ambitious, too cocky. & so, vigilante justice moves his
pawn forth.
{
coɴтrol. ♦ } — ❝Are you always this kind,
Wesker?❞
Jack
Harper must remind himself of one thing alone: all that
glitters is not GOLD.
