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follow my way - Erebos - 06-28-2016
He was a tempest, he was a wave, he was a turbulent beast and a gallant fiend and everything all intertwined. He was a defiant mixture of the sublime and the tainted, the damned and the moral, the iniquitous and the divine – and every day, he wrestled and joined the serpents, the gods, the virtuous beacons, stepping over lines drawn in the sand (to be innocent, to be pure, or to simply follow the pathway of hate and its glorious ends). And most of all, he was restless. The boy soldier skimmed over the dunes and rushed at the gulls, laughing without menace, without malice, without desecration glinting amongst his gaze, ebullient and scattered along the shoal. He launched and leaped over towers of sand castles, extended his motions beyond side-walking crabs and legions of dried, cracked, broken shells, setting sail for the water, for the abyss, for the eternal, blue empire washed out before him. Orsino grumbled on the shore, and Erebos ignored him entirely (freed from the ties, the tethers, of that constant, foxy mind – the reminders of his inabilities or the scorching calculations to fight, fight, fight, like it was his dying breath), racing for the undulating tide. When he reached its heralding specter, its calming siren song, he hurled himself into its bracken depths. Forelegs tucked against his chest, hind folded, and smile widened, the youth landed with a crash, with a splash, on top of its rolling regime, like a prince, like a king, like Poseidon forgotten, peering down at fish and whistling to distant whales. Now what? he wondered, always stuck in the corridors of wanting and waiting, hesitating on truly bowing to fate, determined with fortune favoring the bold. If he were to clamber on and on, past the crying gulls, past the sinuous sharks, past the daring dolphins, what would await him? Were there more kingdoms, unknown and furtive, secret and specious, down below the depths, or beyond the horizon, glinting in the sunshine, awaiting capture? Were there more threats, more villains, more lives taken, shackled, tempted and abhorred? Did those on his list of vengeance wait there, pulled by the current, taken by the shadows, until he came upon them again – bid to rip them into shreds, to annihilate them into oblivion? His feet nearly moved, rippled, across the vast plain of water, nearly screamed and screeched and scrambled against the tide, against the world, to search for endless opportunities (where friends didn’t die, didn’t disappear, didn’t forget him because he never forgot them), for undying revenge, for cold-blooded machinations and stolen oaths, assurances, promises that wouldn’t gather dust. But something held him back. Something always held him back. Then he was just a boy on the current again, basking in the glow of so many wiles and methods, schemes, trials, and tribulations he didn’t understand. [Open to anyone! ^_^] Erebos i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want RE: follow my way - Kid - 06-28-2016
RE: follow my way - Erebos - 07-02-2016
Erebos was a collection of too many elements bound together, and they all reflected back in his form, in his charisma, in his possession, conforming to the princely, regal, chaotic balance of his stature. His father’s darkness, death and desecration, damnation and Mephistophelean regard, had been an adornment in his blood since his birth – soothing, bewitching, intoxicating, a drum right behind his ears, nestled in his skull, in his head, in his mind, conspiring and unwinding. It was a nourishing, delicious toxin, available whenever he craved it – when hate plunged a little too deep, when wrath couldn’t be contained, when all he ever wanted, yearned, or longed for was the destruction of his enemies, was the heartless, remorseless fall of their bodies, the sway of their frames as they were sent to Hell. He’d been made from his grandfather’s fire too – bright and blistering, scalding and hot, granting him ambitions and dreams, forbearance and pride. It crackled and seethed, embers sifting through his bones, rolling through his lungs, never ash, never soot, but always a boiling, brewing, promise; where convictions nestled, where oaths were granted, where assurances were bound by flames and tempests. Vengeance was a kindling, an incensed blast of infernal allure, and he’d chased it down, listened to the crackle behind his eyes, immoral and iniquitous, ablaze and alive. Maybe they made him desire too, eternally unsettled and wanton, restlessly searching for a means to an end when there truly never would be – he’d snag and grasp one thing only to want more. Then, for days, he could be soaked in the deluge of water, craving its freedom, its recklessness, its beauty, and its allure, the ways in which its power was never tested, always known. His mother had been rain, gentle, beautiful droplets cascading in harmonious rivulets, and he’d blended, melded, molded to her sonnets and laments, known what it was to cherish, to smile, to laugh amidst the sea, the fish, the brine. Every so often he was enticed by its majesty, by its glory, by its absolute certainty, by its necessity – as if one day too his name would be so renowned, so familiar, so known. Perhaps that was why he felt the foam, the surf, the swell hit his face now, cause him to close his eyes as the surface rippled beneath his feet, as he smelled the salty air and the wild, untamed bracken – imagining the fathoms burying all his faults, all his flaws. Mother, he almost called into the swirling paradise of wind and tides, to see if she would answer, to see if she would cry back, to see if the gulls remembered her name, to see if there were any traces of her left. But Orsino’s hissing curled through their connection, and he was forced back to reality. Another, the little fox beckoned, and the scion turned his head to glance at a child nestled by the curl and coil of dampened sand and dunes, incapable of reaching him any further. There were snippets, seconds, where he thought to race into the current and leave the other boy to his own devices, but the subtle familiarity of his figure, the white skull adorning his cranium – either painted or earned – caused him to cease the abrupt movements. He looked like Volterra. Erebos wasn’t sure where they stood, he and the stag of bones and dragons, both intentionally rattling and antagonizing the other at their prior meeting; neither coming away wounded. The lad could have been one of Volterra’s – the similarity was striking, but he couldn’t presume. The boy reached out by voice instead of movements, and the prince stood still, a king of the tides, a grin growing over his features at the simple statement, Cheshire and charming, young and charismatic, answering in a boisterous echo. “What can you do?” Erebos i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want @Kid RE: follow my way - Kid - 07-02-2016
RE: follow my way - Erebos - 07-03-2016
Is this all you can do? His lips twitched, craving an explosion of laughter. The list of things he could do, would do, were endless and abundant, so much like the rolling, mercurial tide he stood upon. He could smile and lie, he could devastate and ruin, he could smirk and snicker and make notes of all the enemies he’d burn on his way to power and obliteration. He could hasten embers, infernos, through his skin, through his touch, and watch everything crumble, coil, and contort to ash around him. He could manifest control and composure, he could unleash demands and commands meant to contort, meant to unravel, meant to claw, crawl, and serpentine its way through minds; make them believe it was what they’d wanted all along. He could crumple under the weight of his vulnerabilities and flaws, then sail on the next current, hasten to the horizon, dash, intervene, and savage all the ways the earth wanted to refuse him. He could wish, hope, and dream brilliant aspirations and ambitions, then watch them fall, dim, become washed away when he cared far more than anyone else. He could request Orsino’s guidance, and drown the scenes, the surroundings, in mystique, wonder, and abominations, trick the eye, distort the frame, and punish those who ever thought to hurt the ones he cherished. He could watch his friends disappear, chase after them, wait for them to turn back; he could witness his mother through rain drops, he could study his father slowly decay around him, he could patrol the borders, the realm, the kingdoms for salvation and not take hold of it. He could love and not be loved back. He could hate and let it warp him – body and soul altered to suit his needs. But he told the child none of these things – merely remained coasting on the rivulets and sea, embraced by the cold surf and the lonely ocean. The youth maneuvered slightly along the current, rippling across the brim to peek into the sanction and fathoms below, to spy on fish and tilt his head towards the lad, intrigued by markings, by potentials, by the unknown. The boy was confident too (definitely one of Volterra’s brood), as if he’d proven himself over and over again, as if his gangly, childish body had beaten down monsters and fiends, cretins and maelstroms. I can do many things, he’d said. The urge to laugh brewed inside him once more, and he had to swallow the notion instead of chuckle alongside gull cries and salty, sandy brine. Maybe he had magic, enchantments, and invocations too – the ability to vanquish and conquer bestial suits of armor, rampage into blackguards, become something other than one more name, one more face amongst a crowd of many. “Like what?” Erebos encouraged, an enveloping grin matching his query, piercing eyes riveted solely on the youth’s strange, pink ones, then following down the length of a blood spatter (like he’d already been in battle, scarred, mutilated, lacerated but victorious) upon his chest. Then, he looked away, trying not to laugh, lips pressed together in a wicked composition, the cat that ate the canary. The boy’s final words resounded, revolved, in his head again, and in perfected, noble quality, he answered. “No.” Erebos i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want @Kid RE: follow my way - Kid - 07-11-2016
RE: follow my way - Erebos - 07-14-2016
There was an unearthly, eerie amount of confidence pervading from the other colt; too self-assured, too resilient, too composed for someone of his age. Erebos had likely been the same, but had been molded and taken apart several times along the way, kindled and incensed, reanimated and sketched, taking his experiences, his adventures, his hate, his compassion, and tempering it to something similar to what he was now. He’d stumbled and fumbled on many tasks, trials, and tribulations, and he had to wonder what on earth this child had done to possess the assertiveness, the audacity, or the nerve. “That’s true,” the prince responded to the boy’s first statement – because he’d uttered a belief that scorched over his own malicious, gallant heart. The scion believed in himself, no matter how many times he’d fallen, because of determination, because of perseverance, because of the enduring creed snaking through his core: he could do anything he wanted, as long as he tried, as long as he persisted. One day he’d slay the dragons, the ghosts, the goliaths, and giants wreaking havoc over his brethren, kin, and friends. One day he’d conquer the world alongside his chosen allies. One day he’d snatch the stars instead of chase them. One day he’d succeed where others could not. One day he’d cease craving, because he suddenly had it all, and nothing, no one, could stand in his way. It’d be beautiful, barbaric, and savage, and he couldn’t wait for those fatal, feral moments when everything fell so neatly into place, carefully orchestrated, executed, and ordained. “What would you like to do?” he postured in curiosity, for everyone had goals, dreams, and aspirations. But then the little skull child persisted a little too far, dragging a knife along edges and margins, lingering near fanning flames: If I wanted, I could blow your mind. The warrior’s gaze widened, pretenses flickering and forming, a mask positioning carefully over all the things he wished he could say and do; strike and slap, challenge and distort, maim, rip, and tear, devour and consume until the boy couldn’t even remember his own name. His voice sprung and leaped into varying venues, gliding on sarcasm and wit, plunging into regions of mockery and iniquity. I’d like to see you try, he wanted to say, I doubt it, he wished to utter, I dare you, he yearned to cackle, but none of them coiled along his tongue. Perhaps the boy was right, and he was capable of festering Erebos’ membrane to smithereens, so nothing would be left but a shell, but a vessel, of a blue colt once destined for something great and grand. He’d learned not to underestimate others – like lands, like monsters, like gods (because even they could perish). He ultimately settled for a sly sort of smirk, resting on the eaves of his mouth and lips, coiling upwards to chisel their way into nefarious whims or delightful, mercurial persistence. “Can you? How interesting.” The tones weren’t sharp, weren’t menacing, weren’t vehement, but cool and composed, head tilted to study the waxwork abilities of the lad. The inevitable flared immediately thereafter, for it was his turn to showcase abilities and talents, what lay in his blood, what quivered in his heart, what lay laced and ruined and diabolical, festering through his marrow – a piece of darkness, a brewing of infernal infernos. But rather than tell, rather than lie, rather than intertwine every talent he possessed, the prince wanted to show. “What more can I do…” The beast murmured outloud, gazing towards the horizon as if deep in thought, hard-pressed to find anything noteworthy, pulling threads of deception and deceit together; a specious veil, a harpooning subterfuge. His gaze shifted to the sable kitsune basking on a rock, another Lilliputian, eldritch abomination, waiting for his opportunity to snatch and extort. They connected in silent observations and vile scrutiny, smirking, taunting, and snickering at the others’ wiles and concoctions amidst the unholy disquiet. At once, Orsino gathered his wits, his uncanny, cunning abilities, and along the shoreline rose an image: cloudy and foggy at first, like a curtain of mist rising from mountains, lakes, and valleys, but as it began to take shape, the embodiment, the figure, became a ghostly essence of the chosen beast. A Stygian form was cast onto the sand, conforming to the dirt, the dunes, the loam, with an arrogant satisfaction plastered across his face, his red eyes, his ivory mask, and his broad, distinct shoulders. Erebos remembered him as Volterra, the son of Confutatis, assured and resilient, bold and intrepid, waiting for his moment to take on the world. Perhaps that’s where the child found all his defiance and gall; Volterra simply spread it through his blood, through his ichor, incapable of containing it. The prince’s stare slid immediately back to the youth, maw pointing towards the mirage haunting the beach. “Is this your father?” Erebos i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want @Kid RE: follow my way - Kid - 08-05-2016
RE: follow my way - Erebos - 08-15-2016
What could’ve been amusing, diverting, was left in shambles on a knife’s edge of duplicity and shadows. They played a furtive game now, battling wits and distortions with callous armor and nothingness in between. Erebos nearly snorted at the child’s first response (how clever Orsino noted, rolling his eyes), but noted the hidden decibels and the chilling composition for what it was. The youth had his secrets, motives, plans, and goals, or merely naught at all, and didn’t plan to share any with the prince. It was a dulling notion, and the sentiment drained him of any foolhardy, reckless exuberance. His eyes lost their curious, inquisitive rapture, settling for the rocky shoal or the endless waves rolling towards his hooves, interest no longer compelled when the other didn’t want to share in the mirth and sport. Maybe the boy didn’t have any goals, any dreams, any aspirations for the future, merely existed on the earth, roaming from one land to the next – letting the world take him by surprise or oblivion. While Erebos believed it was a waste (there were so many things to do, to see, to unravel) to wander from ruin to ruin with no ambitions, no plots, no feral intentions, they were all permitted their own ways of life. Somehow, someway, the other would end up shuffling towards his fortune or failure. The path, the arrival, the twists and turns, would be the surprise and mystery, intertwined, entangled, and unknown until it hit him in the face. He grunted mildly in response to the threat of blown brains and subtle grins, far more intrigued and interested in the child’s demeanor towards his father (or the ghostly, eerie image orchestrated on darkened strings and wily threads). The soldier watched closely at the change; very subtle, barely a reconstruction of features at all, except for the quiet, drawn admittance of the shared heritage. Perhaps he was ashamed. Perhaps he was rueful. Perhaps he was angry. Erebos couldn’t decide and the boy gave nothing away, too much like a stone, like a rock, all marble columns and skull features. He wondered, very briefly, what it would be like to hide from who you were and where you’d come from. He’d never thought of committing the act – he’d always been proud of the snow, of the ice, of the dangerous, lurking caverns, of the poignant, haunting summits, of his mother, of his father. Vocals clung to the waves, clear and bright, not sullen, not lurking, rising to the unsaid challenge. “I was curious,” he proffered for reasons (and now he knew there were more and more cretins and creatures spawn from the blood of Confutatis; as if she were reigning again, just in a different fashion, claws still dragging through kingdoms and realms). “You look a lot like him.” The prince smiled then, small and singular, hiding a chuckle clinging to his throat. “I met him once,” he shrugged, then bade Orsino to cease the magic, watching as the image flickered away to bits and pieces of nothing. Erebos i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want @Kid |