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11-15-2015, 09:08 AM
The Reaper paid no reverence to Gods. He obliged them for their power, for their condemnation, for their ability to carve lands and protect their token thresholds, but he didn’t bow at their feet, he didn’t muster any pledges, and he didn’t speak of their glories. Perhaps because he was born into a world of iniquity, where one took for themselves, for their allies, for their comrades, he didn’t believe they heightened his fate, his destiny; that he managed to carve his own pathway, that he’d wandered down these long stretches on his own volition and ambition. He didn’t give into the hands or claws of providence, chance, luck, or the stars – he made calculations, he drove persecution, he crossed borders and spun war. He didn’t believe in a predetermined whim, that someone could gaze into a crystal ball and know what he was going to do a year, a month, a moment from now – that some being reigned supremely over his actions, over his limbs, over his sinew (except perhaps Lucifer himself, conspiring and laughing and mocking his opus, his weapon, his masterful oeuvre) was an irritating, exasperating notion. It ground along his heart, crossed over his ribs, delved deep down into his bones, where the nettled, haunting throngs of his disastrous invocations glimmered and harpooned, lavished and courted, molding him to the call of the God. And like a hypocrite, because his crown was heavy, his shoulders were burdened, and the art of his herd required it, the Lord marched to the demands of a Haruspex and his beloved mirror; himself not called (once, the chime of the divine had beat against his brow; anointing him King again when they’d escaped their underground grotto).
He traced his way slowly, the movement of a predator, making himself known at the entrance of the cave with only a slight bob of his cranium to the God, and to the other beasts already within: the Pegasus mare who pouted and shrieked at the occasional herd meeting, the painted Haruspex, and his own nephew – whom had died? Then how was he here? The notions flickered and scratched at his mind, and for once, he was intrigued, curious, pulsing and devouring over the subjects, the information, the Time Lord had to offer – because something was amiss, either due to the endless fights amidst new grounds (which he’d ravished, enjoyed bringing down those who were mighty, but couldn’t understand what lay beyond the walls of the Rift), or the strange contemplation of Ode dying and becoming reborn again. Instead of offering anything, any nuance, any semblance of conversation, he molded back into a familiar, silent, brooding character, waiting, watching, and witnessing - wanting answers, craving sagacity.
He traced his way slowly, the movement of a predator, making himself known at the entrance of the cave with only a slight bob of his cranium to the God, and to the other beasts already within: the Pegasus mare who pouted and shrieked at the occasional herd meeting, the painted Haruspex, and his own nephew – whom had died? Then how was he here? The notions flickered and scratched at his mind, and for once, he was intrigued, curious, pulsing and devouring over the subjects, the information, the Time Lord had to offer – because something was amiss, either due to the endless fights amidst new grounds (which he’d ravished, enjoyed bringing down those who were mighty, but couldn’t understand what lay beyond the walls of the Rift), or the strange contemplation of Ode dying and becoming reborn again. Instead of offering anything, any nuance, any semblance of conversation, he molded back into a familiar, silent, brooding character, waiting, watching, and witnessing - wanting answers, craving sagacity.
Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.
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