.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
11-04-2015, 05:56 PM
Erebos
Caught in the flames of naught, the pair marched on, drumming a lethargic, listless beat of scattered purpose and wretched raptures. Two rapiers set alight on the glow of mutiny and dissidence, sullen, silent pariahs, harpooning names and faces in the sand. They could launch darts and throw stones and imagine a Colossus with his painted hide set ablaze, but it would only be delusions, mirages, and chimeras – delusional at best, pathetic at worst. Drawn and quartered and sketched from a line of craft, guile, and power, he’d hoped to achieve the rites of Arwen’s death upon that chamber of battles, chaos, and bedlam, but it hadn’t been meant to be – too much too soon, too little too late. Their only reverence was in the exultation of promised wickedness: that eventually they would dine in the reaches of vehemence and revenge and menace and might. Though incapable of finding which path led them to their desired ruin, they were steady, strong, and stalwart in the face of nothingness, drawing on the lacquer of determination formed along each brow, across fibers and sinew and marrow, driven but not desperate. They only followed the distant, desolate outcrops and the delicate balance of ice, wind, and snow, fighting against the beckoning of summer and the stretch of lazy sunlight, digging into patches and pockets of melting pools and thick slush, branching off of well-worn trails and glancing off into the horizon. The prince half-expected a sign: a foreshadowing, a beckoning, beguiling, bewitching signal and beacon of what he was supposed to do, where he was supposed to go, to fulfill the behemoth wishes and the decadent, nefarious longings. All he received for his perusal was a glare of light and Orsino’s answering hiss, grunt, and snort. They’d have to make, sculpt, and carve their own desires from eldritch invocations and revolutionary vigilance; corrosive, dissident, and insurrectionary – there were no tales for him to read where the child who waited and wandered ever found what they were looking for. He thought to branch away from nestled thorns and rampaging winds, settle along the heights of cliffs and moonlight while the sun whittled away, but another crept over the notion and swept it clean under the rug – Orsino, black and barbaric, uttered only one strain: Stranger!, before the newcomer embarked fully into the boy’s senses. His skull shifted, his eyes narrowed, and for a few moments, he merely studied and scrutinized, a silent void on top of his sullen mountain.
A mare, older than he, wrapped in ivory and marked by sable, motioned her way and broke amidst his melancholy: she appeared almost delicate, fine, sculpted from china and glass, as if she could be maneuvered into shards or tossed over a cliff. He’d never seen her before, one more foreign entity amidst this great, belligerent, grand world – but since she likely hadn’t murdered any of his companions, he didn’t entreat her with hostility.
How to regard or consider her was another matter.
He pondered, briefly, if she was going to be like that other mare he’d met amongst the caverns (blistering, lecturing, bristling with all sorts of spines and needles, chiding and scolding until he gave her nothing but a juvenile essence in return).
He wondered if he should appear as someone else, lie and lie and lie: if he could be Ignatius, dipped in fire and coal and ash, sparking and behemoth and God-like, a cretin incensed from embers and brimstone. He could be Nepdon, Poseidon’s gentle trident, luring and beguiling from the folds of water and the babble of brooks; an intriguing glimpse of otherworldly ethereality.
Or perhaps, he could merely be himself: Erebos, prince of the Basin, scion of revenge and power and prowess and potential and incapable of achieving anything but anger, hostility, and anarchy. The lad dipped his head, slowly, casting shades of scrutiny even amidst the slight movement of his skull, etching and stroking over the words and phrases the mare had framed. “Troubled?” The expression tasted bitter, resentful, and rancorous, an acrid potion across his tongue, and he struggled not to show it. His nose wrinkled vaguely, and the pull of his eyes glanced over her again, embarking on introductions before he could emphasize anything more on her observations. “I’m Erebos, of the Aurora Basin.” A pause, a break, a joining of breaths, and the fox nestled between his forelegs almost begged for nefariousness – the blue youth, with his glowing prowess and his shambled barbs, hid in the fields of isolation. “I’m not troubled,” and here a bloom of mischief carved its way upon his mouth, devilishness with luster and scorn. “I know what I’m going to do – I’m just not sure how to begin.”
I'LL SHOW YOU HOW GOD | FALLS ASLEEP ON THE JOB
Image Credits
Image Credits
@Calista
