(ooc: Lost my RP so had to slap something together, whoopsie.)

Slowly, the creature's eight legs make their way up the bone-white throne. With no pause, no hesitation, the creature makes its way up to the resting palm of Deacon. He slowly lifts the Brazilian Wandering spider up in front of the camera and stares as it attempts to navigate the peaks and valleys of Deacon's hand.

"Deadly, but small. Men fear this creature, so they destroy it. They don't seek to tame, to understand, to coexist. They see this 'pest' as a threat and see red. Brother Avery, this pest is you. But do not mistake me for the trembling fool that wishes to squash you beneath his heel. No brother, I wish to make you understand. I wish to teach. To inform. I wish to rebuild you, to unleash you. But first..."

Deacon firmly grasps one of the spider's legs. It struggles briefly but, as if accepting its fate, stills itself against his palm.

"I must dissect your lies."

He squeezes and pulls the leg from the spider in one fluid motion. The spider spasms and it's fangs dig into the flesh of Deacon. He does not flinch.

Quote:"Deacon, you're a fool if you think The All-Father had forgotten about me. Why would he? I bring him glory to his name and in return he blesses me with mighty power. Now I know you too have some power but it doesn't mean a damn thing if you're going to sit in a throne like Thanos for ten fucking movies doing nothing."

"Glory? What glory do you bring? A man claiming to have lived thousands of years and yet has made no discernible impact upon it brings glory? Do you think these deities of yours float upon their clouds, beaming with pride over their millenia-year-old dunce who has "been all over the world and learned a few things and a few language?" Perhaps you should have stayed in one place and mastered the first language.

Another limb is pulled from the reeling spider. His fangs sink deeper into the flesh.

Quote:"I don't fear your dark magic and I sure a Hel don't fear you. I've been alive for over a thousands years and I've dealt with many people like yourself. Yes, someone who is wrapped up in their twisted religion and thinks it makes them powerful or a God."

"Magic? Religion? God? Oh no, brother Avery. Gods are a crutch, existing in the imaginations of lesser men with no grasp of their own destiny. Your 'gods' are merely storybook fiction, meant to comfort you in the moments when you have lost all hope and desperation sets in. Moments like this. Moments when you realize that you will come face-to-face with brother Hammu and no amount of communion wafers or rosaries can put a halt to what has already been written in stone. When you slink to your knees this night, praying that your fake deities give you one last ounce of hope, remember that they are false and I am real. Only when you accept my absolute truth will you be able to break free from the bondage that service to these false idols has place upon you. And that truth is this: This world has become a playground for the wicked. A cesspool teeming with rapists, pedophiles, and fanatics such as yourself. It is time for it all to be brought to an end, and that's what brother Hammu offers. Become the ending, or face it. Whichever you choose does not matter, for it cannot be stopped.

"Savage, will be just that. A night where the false gods existing in that void between your ears will recoil in horror as they witness what happens when brother Hammu must recreate a lost and broken man. Your bones will splinter, your blood will spill, your very soul will scream. But it will all be for you. Soon the lie you live will be nothing but a distant memory, a bad dream from the insignificant period of your life that you now dwell. Your existence spirals into nothingness as you await the approval of your imaginary masters, like the affection sought by a puppy after fetching a slipper. And while all you crave is a scratch behind the ear or a 'good boy,' your masters are silent. Nonexistent, yet content to let you toil away to please them. Brother, you are a victim of your own failures."

"I want you to channel all this power you believe you have been granted from these false beings. I want you picture your gods standing beside you, prepared to go to war. But mostly, I want you to step into that ring with me Saturday night where there are no gods, there is no religion, no magic. No games. All that will be there is your screams of anguish and your evacuated bowels streaming down your leg upon realizing that I am much realer than the gods you pray to for luck in the lottery drawings and curse for the size of your penis. To me, you are an insignificant nuisance not even worth labeling a stepping stone. If your gods were real, I'm sure they'd agree that you're just an uninspired piece of flesh, flailing around with no real reason or purpose--sentient foreskin, basically.