A/N: I'm writing in the order that scaragh posts her art. This drabble is also not necessarily in the Antiphony universe.
Theme 6: Spit
Next time, know who you're up against.
That infernal voice would not fade from his head. Sweet with scorn, annoyingly high-pitched, complete with a self-righteous smirk, delicate wrist settled smugly against the curve of her hip. The scene replayed itself in his mind ad infinitum and he cursed inwardly, unable even to move his lips in the airtight trap of the Crystal.
For the past hour he had focused all his energy in his right hand, trying to break the Crystal's containment spell with the threads of his own power. His gauntlet was glowing feebly, radiating power to melt away the hundred-layered barrier around him with painstaking slowness. Once his right hand was free, he would be able to escape. That moment could not arrive soon enough.
Next time, know who you're up against…
She was a mere slip of a girl with a delicate constitution, a pampered upbringing, and the fashion sense of a whore. A princess who'd been stupid enough to choose a street rat as the future sultan of her kingdom. Yet she'd managed to trap him in his own prison and laughed in his face while he'd been helpless to respond in any way. What was his life coming to?
There was no question in his mind that Agrabah would be the first kingdom slated for conquest. No, not conquest. Complete annihilation. He would raze it to the ground, set it to burn in dark blue and black until it was a charcoal pit of corpses and ash, a permanent stain on the face of the Third Desert. Before that, though, he would capture Aladdin and his little gang of followers, bind them in chains and suspend them over their beloved city, where they would be treated to a nice aroma bath of smoke and the fresh stench of death. He'd make sure the princess had the best view. Oh, he would enjoy watching her suffer. He'd stand right beside her, ignore all the petty threats and curses that would inevitably fly from her pretty mouth, and relish the slow sinking of hope in her rebellious eyes, the pearly tears that would drip uselessly into the roaring flames below. She'd beg him for mercy then, apologize for ever challenging him, for humiliating him and daring to laugh at the most powerful sorcerer in the world. He'd listen until her words bled into incoherence, and then tell her it was too late, because she'd already laughed, and it couldn't be taken back.
Yes, he quite liked that idea, though on second thought he had to admit it was a little over the top. Fire was a rather messy form of destruction, and he could do without the stench of burning flesh part. When he was not so livid, he would be able to devise some other, cleaner but equally destructive method of wiping out her city and crushing her foolish pride. A sandstorm, perhaps, stirred up by the dark spirit of his native sands, enough to bury the entire kingdom in a mass grave and form the only manmade mountain in the Seven Deserts. Or he could find a way for the black sand to absorb the kingdom altogether, trapping it and all its citizens in an endless dimension of roiling black sludge. He had options, and time to consider them all carefully.
If he were able to move his lips, he would have smiled.
Next time, know who you're up against indeed, Princess.