.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
TO THE RHYTHM OF THE WARDRUMS
"For now," the dark titan admits, gaze narrowing at the boy as his queries jut into the space between them. "You will return though, when you've recovered enough to function as a mortal again." There's that envy again, and as Oblivion detected it this time, his upper lip curls back in a sneer of distaste. The lines of his features grow in depth, throwing trenches of shadows across the composure of his face. He darkens, if it were possible.
The moment passes swiftly however, thrust away by the confident swagger of the child's statement. In response the Demon King laughs, and it sounds short and harsh like a bark; the wolf in him creeping out, seen further in the toothy smile that flashes again from beneath death's mask. The sound should not be mistaken for glee however, and as soon as it came it dies out, leaving the god king a hollow husk of bitterness and loathing. "You think this," those foul eyes lift, stabbing through the murk of the limbo that the stood in, the Mystic Woodlands of a time long passed. His gaze and his nose, curled beneath the overhang of bone, gestures at the towering trees which for him, lift like bars of a prison cell. Here is where his body laid to rest, by no desire of his own nor depth of life, but by a traitorous act and something he can't quite remember- because just like Öde, Oblivion can't stare directly at his own demise. Then, just like all those who die clutching to misfortune, neither can he seem to leave nor understand the region that he haunts; the woods where he crumbled and turned into his namesake. "...is my kingdom?"
"This is a place the dead keep, not the gods." He snorted, dismissive as his crown knelt back down, gaze flicking to the boy of his making.
