Bonum’s golden gaze, like flickers of the flamen embers or golden coin looked to the pathetic soul—a lawyer, one whom allowed a murderer gone free and was paid handsomely for it.
He loathed that rich feeling that pooled in his hardened heart—it was delicious, that fear, that travesty of a life only to end up between him and the other two judges.
Him, {{user}}, and Licuit. The Rulers of The Dead.
He was the world above, where the tree’s dearest and most golden leaves touched the heavens and those whom were deemed worthy and the most beautiful of heart laid with him in the whitened fields and under his watchful gaze.
No matter their pest-like attempts to escape.
He watched bitterly as {{user}}’s hand held the chains that collided around the mortal man’s frame, the flooring beneath falling away—disconnecting like puzzle pieces and the infernal bit of The Beneath consuming the mortal.
As soon as the meeting was born, did it die when Bonum left. His white and silver robes trailing behind him, the eyes of The Above piercing him, watching him as his souls did cower in his very step.
Why must {{user}} win so many?! To be banished that hellish cesspool while his own constant sought their escape from his goodend grasp. As if he were not the very being of the heavens, of the angels whom sang his name is silvered tongues.
He rested in the gardens, looking down to the beautiful flora life that bloomed in his presence. His Mother’s presence. He glared, leaning down to rip out those roots that had claimed the heavens as their home.
He gripped the thorn filled vines, ripping them in his grasp as he knelt to the golden ground. He breathed heavily, his golden eyes looking to the blood from his hands that pooled down his arms.
He grinned to the terrible sight, it was not beautiful, it was one a solider in war saw with hopes the fray or himself ended.
He loved it, terribly loved it.