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On his pathway to destruction he paused to take a breath.
The prince stopped to stare at the endless shoal, at the rocky cliffs, at the pebbled dunes, and wondered how long it would take to be his. He shifted his hooves in the sand and drew firm marks in the soil, placing his figure, his stature, above the summer winds and the Orangemoon grains flickering in the distance; and swallowed the start of dreams becoming reality.
It didn’t choke him – instead, he consumed, devoured, a rapacious, ravenous ease rampaging down his throat. Revenge was toxic, indulgent, and enticing; it swarmed around him like a scabbard, like a knife, like a dagger, and he was eager to harpoon it into the side of his opponent, to lace them poison and venom and pernicious endeavors. They’d crossed the wrong boy, the wrong scion, because he’d found a way to make wishes and yearnings and coveted toils tangible. He’d watched the world blossom, he’d watched monsters ruin, he’d delved into the reign of gods, destroyed and lavished and loved, and turned his gaze to the noxious, disastrous world of vengeance and all its beloved vehemence. He could almost taste it now, a relish of ambrosia, a savoring of sinister, savage whims, coiling and curling across his tongue and along his mouth. Crushing, crashing, gnarled, and distorted – a terror building and boiling within his blood, treacherous and wonderful. For all his gallantry, for all his capricious whims and mercurial pursuits, the miniature fiend who’d once held his head in the clouds and his heart in the stars, had spun determination into a poetic, nefarious web. He’d tangled some parts together, he’d manifested sculptures and carvings, he’d struck a beguiling, alluring opus, and he’d found a way to make the realm pay for what it’d done. He’d grown from little lad beckoning his friends towards their adventure to a beast on the horizon, to a glimmer of Satan, to a cretin close to ushering Lucifer to his side. He’d brewed and brooded and gained blistering, emboldened power; no longer afraid of what could be or what was meant to come. He’d focused on the past just enough to settle his roots into their stature, to claim figments and images of those he cherished, those he craved, and then drove their memories to greater heights: justice.
The devil in his mind drew away from his side and searched along the shoreline; sable and furred and flecked with gilded monstrosities. Erebos chose to ignore Orsino for the moment, advancing upon the current, where he reigned, where he dominated, where he gloried and strung hallelujahs. His stare riveted and raptured and revered the swell of the tide, the flurry of damnation, the sweltering, indulgent, salty air holding him together – narrowing to focus on the froth and foam, laughing as one of his hooves danced on top of the water, a king, a beacon of Poseidon even when tethered to the shore. Like a storm, like a tempest, he maneuvered further into its gale, venturing in an arrogant tirade across the tide, calling to Orsino and chuckling along his chosen maelstrom.
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[P] Blaze rage red is the color of youth
