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03-01-2015, 06:33 PM
Erebos was many things at those final, feral moments of definition and resolution: an agent, cloaked in disastrous information, a child thrust into confusing perils, a lad twisted and distorted from ebullience into anger, then guilt, then sorrow, and all of them conformed at once into a strange, shirking little thing. He wandered at the edge of the herd meeting, waiting for the last of the citizens to filter and flicker away, not catching the Reaper’s inquiring brow or questioning stare, not eager to share, disclose details or particulars until he’d reached the first being who deserved the despairing cognition. His eyes were figments of the burdening, blistering turmoil, narrowed as he’d been in wrath, in contempt, in ire towards a miniature murderer, in remorse for being incapable and inept, because he hadn’t reached her in time, and then the saddening, maddening pulse of reality closing over the entire, bright, brilliant sanction of his gaze – until he thought he might burst from the conflictions and snapped his lids shut. Behind the blackened view, he channeled the strength, the resolution, the determination of his task, remembered the way his sire dominated the crowd, remembered the secrets spilled across the throng, remembered knowledge was power, had to be noted even when the potency seemed too strong, too toxic. It bound and crawled down his throat, a clandestine, covert stroke of the menacing hours Arwen was left to fester, to wither, forgotten and desolate, between the blood splatter and a cretin’s markings, a fiery lizard, and a punishment fit for nothing and no one. Before he had the opportunity to shy away, to shirk and shudder in the sharing of this ill-fated wisdom, he opened his sights, found the ivory femme tucked along the mountain ramparts, and maneuvered towards her.
His movements felt sluggish, dragging, listless and languid, a cretin’s march to the gallows, hesitant and yielding, because he had no idea how the mother of a murdered child would react. The scion’s ignorance was a futile essence and a missing experience soon to be shared, and he could only dread each insurmountable moment. How does one tell a loving dam one of her babes had been killed, massacred, slaughtered? What would she do? Would she blame him, because he’d done nothing but stare down the brutal killer, watched him wash away her blood in the snow, spout anger and agony? Would she shatter on the icy floor? Would she seek vengeance? The possibilities appeared endless, and the apprehension clustered in his chest, caused his heart to beat rapidly, and for any sentiment of haughty endeavors or jovial pursuits to flee into the encroaching evening. No devil arts, no menacing smirks, no impish qualities flickered along his features, and as he finally approached her pale form, he’d managed to conjure naught but despondency and dejection, incapable of composing an appropriate mask, wearing reality upon his features. The lithe lad’s enduring fortitude maintained a struggling gaze, a tilting cranium, an anxious chord clasped and buried in his throat. “Arah? Can I talk to you?” His eyes darted in various directions, hoping no one else heard, divulging, hiding, subterfuge rancor, before returning to her antlers, to her gentle lull, and to all the ruminations of how she’d be so gravely altered once his proclamations were uttered. Another ominous distortion rumbled through his vocals, brooding and trepidatious. “It’s about Arwen.”
OOC :: @[Arah]
"speech"
