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EREBOS He’d survived a battle with a God. Gods could die. The network of thoughts, of sentiments, emboldened the audacious lad all the more. The demonstrative outreaches of power, the complexity of immortality versus mortality, the final, dying sounds of something that had once been so proud, so magnificent, was enough to complicate the spinning webs contorting his Machiavellian mind. If a deity could be laid to waste, could be stripped and torn from a timeless, enduring life force, what was to be said for any of them? Weren’t they just as weak? Just as helpless? Or were there ways around being meek and pathetic, sunken and disheveled, beaten and beaten and beaten until one forgot whom they’d been and what they’d done? He was no stranger to death: his father commanded the element, and he’d seen Arwen’s fractured, lifeless body bleed red upon the pale snow. He’d been witness to murdered, ravaged bodies. He’d spied on countless moments and clues leading to a specific culprit. He’d been in the world long enough to understand that where there were thriving, blooming temples and tempests, there were those clustered in the shadows, struggling for their last breath. Perhaps these last few days had been enough for him to finally understand and comprehend a means of achieving his endless aspirations. He had to be strong. He had to be wicked. He had to be cruel. In order to seek revenge for the poor golden filly, in order to harpoon vengeance into the slate of a demon, in order to become something more, he had to practice. He had to fight. He had to win. And after that, maybe, just maybe, the world could be his. Erebos proceeded across the eerie, crimson void, walking and wandering past its aperture, its stained leaves, its dark, entrancing canopy hiding the demonstrations of dawn, staring over the long, unwavering waterfall of ichor and savagery, the canvas of debauchery and sinister predilections. Some mysteries had been answered, and some enigmas had been all the more stirred, incensed, but he sought it for its sorcery, for its appeal: where he’d wandered over hither and yon with Rikyn, where he’d wished Aithniel would view him as not a being to be protected, and where he’d seen the fire-boy turn and run, leaving them to the wiles, to the spells, to the violence of an angry being. He hadn’t been irritated with him – merely disappointed. Cathun had failed to snatch the opportunity presented before him, to glory in the height of battle, to claim victory over a being regarded as untouchable, unattainable, to reach for the stars and truly feel, for a fraction of a second, that the glistening barbs descended and scorched their skin. Would he now, when Erebos presented him with one more chance, to fight, to skirmish, to bludgeon? A monstrous piece of him stirred, belligerent and deceitful. Orsino rumbled beside him, sinking and sitting between the boy’s forelegs, coaxed and lured into the forbidding pieces of the future, spreading duplicitous hums beneath his foxy breath. He ceased only when the prince surged beside him, bellowing into the canals of blood and delusion – wondering how far they’d spread their own. “Cathun, come spar with me!” [Setting: Blood Falls – around morning, though difficult to tell considering the amount of canopy. Set towards the blood waterfall. 0/3 posts. 537 words. Feel free to have first attack! ^_^] |
@Cathun
