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11-21-2015, 06:57 PM
For once, the boy didn’t wander. He was not lost, not afraid, not strayed or undaunted – marching with keen intent, with vibrant, vehement focus. His dreams had been kindled, his aspirations had been realized, and the ambitious call of his nefarious, unrelenting determination drove at his veins, scarred and scorched over his frame, drew him from beguiling whims to soulless assaults, from seething horrors to gallant acts of vengeance. The scion’s pursuit was an endless, unwinding one, bending and coiling and curling with sinister, savage ease, starting with a girl battered and broken in the snow, to the Sun God granting him the wisdom he needed, craved, and yearned for. The flames had been generous: granting and coaxing and incensing the belligerent, boiling fire within his heart, so with every step he became all the more ignited, all the more glorious, all the more eager, ready, for the fray. But it would take so much more than the need, than the want, for destruction. It would take cunning. It would take charisma. It would take persuasion and power and the definition of treachery, and he would have loved to lay claim to it all, every avaricious, passionate bit; relished and savored and brutalized the game for all its players and pawns. His father calculated and his mother made the rain and his sister strung her blossoms and hate together; he could be the boy with the conspiring mind and the impish smile, devouring and destroying with savage grins and Cheshire whims. Starved for justice, for revenge, for requital, he lavished the stage, the mercenary brands, the signature arts of fire, and the devil on his shoulder, dark, twisted Orsino, labored over their strides, their art, their magnificence to ensure they were worthy of it all. The Sun God had said others were too: he’d require cohorts, compatriots for the future (and he knew of some, disappeared and vanished and vanquished that he’d always wish for: a half-deity cloaked in her own fire, a stag painted with runes, a future doctor stitching sutures, but maybe they were just gone too and he was just left to carve his own path without them). Erebos coveted their menace, their malice, their vehemence too, fed on the notion of others’ hate, that he wasn’t the only one who desired the fall of a Colossus, who wanted to savor his crumbling into dust, into ruin, piece by piece, pedestal by pedestal. How many would it take to annihilate this noxious foe? And how many would fall in the interim, while they waited and schemed and he tried desperately to grow stronger, mightier, a sword, a blade, a cutlass, a scintillating, searing pulse of the wicked and powerful? Zenobia of the Dragon’s Throat, the divine being had told him; and so he traced over the path he’d taken once before, pretended to falter and stumble in the sands, set up more and more pretenses like the child he’d once been (Ignatius, stalwart and bright, granted and gifted with light; then his friends disappeared and died), edging in on the dunes and gulls. He shuffled along the borders, Orsino resting on his hind, stoic and brave, noble and indulgent, calm and nefarious, blending into the outcrops, into the dust, like one more brilliant, blinding prince searching for his fortune, for dragons, for allies. He pressed against the walls and bellowed only once, precise and specific, listening to his voice ricochet across the strand. “I’m looking for Zenobia," and recalled the way her temper crackled, the way her morality sizzled, and the sway of her loathing. Did it resemble his? OOC;; [If there's anyway for someone to come and tell him she's fighting Abraham that would be so awesome. But if not thats cool too. XD] TAG;; @[ ] "talk talk talk" |
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