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10-04-2015, 06:17 PM
EREBOS They had both grown in a series of moments. Erebos’ fire scorched another, and instead of the intense, overwhelming regret he’d conjured when he’d done the same to Asch so very long ago, the sentiments were fervent, ardent, and empowering. There was proof to his potential, evidence of his capability – he could be one more demon amongst the infidels, rising, rising, rising before their very eyes. Below the satisfaction, the contentment, the zeal in sinister convictions, there was the smallest glimmer of shame, that he’d somehow damaged, wronged the other lad, but then that too was squashed as Cathun proved his own capacity. He didn’t run. He didn’t show any marks of a coward or weakling. He charged towards Erebos, and despite Orsino’s dark, pressing warnings, there was no chance to beat out the ember-clad stag’s longer, lengthier stride – they crashed in a tirade of motion. Cathun’s broader, taller form met Erebos in a mighty push of force along his right side; the scion was nearly tossed off his feet, stumbling amidst the forest loam, digging into its soil and finding his ability to stand again. The rush was breathtaking, stealing away the delicate moments of reflection for something relentless, overbearing, and mutinous; all he could do was leap to the left, scatter pebbles, and gain the function of his lungs back. Was he destined to lose? Could this massive beast defeat him? And what would that mean: that he was weak? That he was powerless? That he was incapable? The notion incensed, infuriated, bent into his composed mind and fractured its warm, compassionate senses, its pleasantries, its gallant, valorous efforts, pressing and pulsing into a maddening, frayed end met with declarations and pursuits. Because he wanted to make the other flee. He wanted him to wither and decay before his eyes; admitting the yearning of triumph, the eager, swift, culmination of everything and anything he wished to be. He embraced the avaricious plunge, he cherished the challenge, he ground his teeth, chiseled his jaws together, and gathered all the thoughts swarming the connection between wily kitsune and the eager, belligerent boy. A spark of menace glimmered amidst their bond, and the fox hidden within the bushes whispered, beguiled and entranced. Show me what want. I do, I do! Erebos, a son of craft, of machinations, of calculations, remembered how Cathun had fled the scene amidst their earlier trials and tribulations – the vision of the colossal, ivory bear puncturing and piercing the setting, the frightening, unhinged howls, the scent of bloodshed… Orsino laughed again, and drummed enchantments the miniature infidel had never dreamed of. On the spark of delusions and hallucinations, raw images became concocted through the air, bringing terror to reality, sketching, tracing, and defining: painting horror and treachery. Erebos stared and witnessed it all: the heavy, foreboding steps of a giant, towering being echoed amongst the landscape, the tremor of the leaves as a smaller copy of the ursine flashed beneath the blood-red canopy, the pulsing, unwinding power Orsino held in his grasp. As the bear appeared to lumber towards Cathun, marching on all four legs and bellowing grand, terrifying roars, the colt used it as a means of distraction. He pretended, (fought the urge to snicker and laugh), gasping and staring and allowing his jaws to slacken, hoping the other would be disturbed from the manifestation of their previous dangers, of their dance with gods and behemoths, before darting towards Cathun’s left. His turn was slow, dawdling and sedate, hindered by his sore hind and aching right shoulder, but he ground across the loam and hoped their plan worked – that the now, flickering image of the bear (perhaps Orsino’s youth didn’t guarantee a strong, enduring image) would be enough of an interference to grant him time and opportunity. But the youth tried anyhow, lowering his skull, brandishing his horn, to attempt and scrape the length of his sword down Cathun’s left side – delving deeper and deeper into the art of prowess, the scale of potential. [2/3. 668 words. Cathun crashes into Erebos’ right side, sending him stumbling and leaping off to the left. Orsino, using his dark illusions magic, conjures a moving image of the bear from the Blood Falls SWP thread, hoping to distract/scare Cathun. As the image flickers, since Orsino doesn’t have full control of his magic yet, Erebos uses the chance to try and swipe Cathun’s left side with his horn.] |
