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He was awarded to advice instead of scorn, wisdom and sagacity instead of hatred, and for that, the foolish boy listened, attuned and riveted by the words slipping from the God’s mouth. He drank his fill of the notions, of the sentiments, of the knowledge shifting and churning within his mind, reeling and clinging and devouring the contents he’d been bestowed – and grasped exactly what he wanted. He took and took with avaricious ears, with a raptured, deliberate scheme.
It is not wrong. It wasn’t improper, unfitting – merely a drumming of what was to be, what was yet to come, permission to lay waste to an enemy.
But his actions, his deliberations, his longing couldn’t be achieved by power alone, no matter how he dreamed and concocted and measured out the depths of his abilities – he heard it through the syllables and phrases of one who possessed complete, utter supremacy and judgment. Brawn pitted against brawn could only do so much with naught more than muscle and abhorrence behind it. Loathing, disaster, and aspirations could only be plans; they didn’t shape or thread themselves together. The lad grew very silent, enticed, tempted down into the furtive, specious armaments of his mind, swift and strong, indulgent and charismatic, unwinding the pieces and pawns laid out before him. For all his wishes and dreams, he’d only achieved the bare minimum, the growing strength of enchantments, the ability to throw his fire, his rage, into the pits and gallows and watch it fester, wither, and decay. He couldn’t strike now, or ever, in just a state of invocations and durability; the beast he stalked held far more burliness than he’d ever muster or grow into.
This called for more cunning, more conniving, more wicked, wicked, wicked deeds. The sinister outreaches of his mind, the unwinding, nefarious edges of Orsino’s content, vehement pulse, drummed, pleasant, urgent, begging to be possessed and upheld. The Sun God insisted on collaboration, camaraderie, gathering others who felt the same way he did, who claimed justice, who spun revenge, who urged requital – and perhaps, this was one of the few gifts Erebos could anoint to himself – because he held the passion, the rites, the charisma to bring beings together (though perhaps not as of late; not when the Sun God’s daughter screeched at him, not when Rikyn’s temper flared, not when they all forgot who they were and what they’d been – ignorant of what the future held).
Could he do the same now?
His memories churned and burned, delicate little embers brought back to life, surging at the righteous condemnation fueling their smoky breaths. The beast remembered two girls on the battlefield, amongst the strange isles where he’d drawn blood across the Colossus’ hide, screeching in dismay, in hatred, in wrath for some other brutal action the painted one had took. How many more victims lay in his wake, in his path, in his ridiculous, greedy bloodshed? How many more had he irked, irritated, and incensed?
And could the boy, with eyes of sin and iniquitous designs, pull them to his heinous crusade? Could he instrument a plague upon the beast that wronged them all?
His gaze flicked back and forth over the tempestuous fringe of lava and fire, stoking the fibers of his being, the incensed portions of his soul, the avenues and trails and alleys he’d have to take. It filled him with a raucous, infectious glee, an ebullient discordance, a menacing outlook for the future – and his stare, riveted back upon the God and all his gallant enterprise, rationale, and prudence, highlighted the noxious, forbidding sparks across his features. “Of course. You are right. Sometimes action cannot be committed on power alone.” No subversive tactics, no inflammatory barbs; the divine one had been correct, and his course needed to be altered. Herein, his brow quirked, arched, faintly, as if a bit ashamed he had to ask for something all over again – always grasping and clenching for more. “You have been very generous in your wisdom and guidance. I will be forever grateful for your sagacity. I only have one more question.” He paused, recalling, reliving, the fight amongst the Riptide, the girls with their hate, with their malice, with their menace intertwined between them, and how he yearned to tie all their strings together, knot them in alignment. “There were two amongst our fight at the Isles who shared my hatred, but I don’t know their names. One bay, young, had her feather stolen by the beast. The other, an ivory dun with wings and a temper.” The scion’s head tilted, hopeful and indulgent, radiant and bestial, a fine caliber of foreboding, baleful whims, and attempted to mold the hours and wiles of destruction. “Do you know where I might find them?”
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[O] I am the fire [Quest Turn-In - Sun]
