It shouldβve felt like the bottom of his face detached, fortunately the blow was adjusted enough for his vision to flash white.
A manifestation of the hunt incarnate was before him, as the distance between them dwindled with agonizing surety.
#πππππ‘ / #ππ₯ππππππ₯π₯π’πͺ.
β β
#π«πΉπ¬π¨π«π―π¨πΉπΉπΆπΎ
The haunting that comes before
death. A season of hunted kings.
Something has come for
my π―πͺπΆπ²π΅π, to claim their heads
β¦ as ββπ»πΉπΆπ·π―π°π¬πΊ.
βͺ @killerofkillers.bsky.social β«
β β
He who cannot be hunted cannot
be π‘π¨π§π¨π«ππ. He who is hunted β¦
will be ππππππππππ.
Iβm the devil you know
vs the devils you donβt.
His throne was a cairn of cracked helms, his court, the hush before impact. He strode the Nine like a war-chant, bridging Midgard to Asgard with the heel of his wrath.
Thor, breaker of staves,
splitter of sky, π³πΆπΏπππ―πΌπΏπ» of the stormβs
spine. He did not reign.
He resounded.
The rapture of π°πΌπ»πΎππ²ππ, not the triumph of kings, but the birth cry of the storm. Thor, a god swaddled in fury, had no crown of jewels, he wore the tempest itself as his cloak, a mantle woven of shattered skies and screaming winds.
A time untouched by subtlety, where the
