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For once, he wandered without drive, without reason, without devout, zealous purpose. The Basin was not a world to be shadowed and veiled in his ardent fixture of hate and vengeance; it was stoked and refined by the cold, calculating winds and the formidable, beguiling fortress of rock and rubble. It was winter and delight, it was eerie and spellbinding, and it housed all of the glorious things he cherished (because he did – he adored and revered so many things and so many comrades – and only when they were taken from him did he truly ignite). It was graceful and bold, in the way that mountains never conformed, in the way that peaks never bowed, in the way that rapture and decadence could be found within each and every clearing; a motive to fight, an inspiration to devour.
So he stared, over the mass of glaciers and ice, a prince of audacity and boldness, a scion of rancor and immorality, devout and blessed by the frosty crowns nestled between rock and ruin. The day was endless, full of promise, full of daring, full of things boys aspired to be and harpoon on silly stories and drunken delusions – and today, he wasn’t sure what he craved, what he yearned, what he twisted through the foundations of his bones and sinew and muscle. Together, his sable shadow and himself, they rumbled and maneuvered, torn and tied amidst the snowy plain, pondering over ghosts and vigilance, haunting spells of failures and torments, flanking, soulless regards and the way they’d eventually collect all their demons and roast them into one blazing, towering inferno (and how grand it would be; to watch an enemy burst into flame). It would never bring the pieces of his, or another’s, life back, but it would be satisfying, gratifying, to have completed one more goal, to have become strong and unyielding, enduring and unholy, shaped and sculpted and designed by the nefarious sins drifting in and out of their illustrious wake. There would always be time for licentiousness, for trials, for tribulations, for chasing after the sun and becoming blinded by its splendor.
Orsino, poking along various bushes and caverns as they yielded to a state of nomadic inquiries, was the first to note something amiss. His clever, foxy little nose whipped upward, nostrils flaring, coaxing and ensnaring the wisps, the curls, of blood. His eyes narrowed, recognizing various scents, but there were too many blurring together to make sense of the situation – but the reverberation between kitsune and boy was too strong, too apparent, to be ignored or disregarded.
Erebos’ eyes widened, and a sheer state of panic clustered and cloistered his limbs, his figure, his body, and his mind; like a poison, like a sieve, veiling him in horrible connotations and contortions. Enna.
His movements were immediately set in motion – wild and savage, sinister and chaotic, nearly teetering on unhinged, unbalanced. He was too afraid of what he might find buried beneath snow and rubble (and the sickening memories of that little girl pressed in gold and blood were too much to bear, too much to repeat), but the questions were unwinding and obscene. Had something happened to her? And what was he to do if something had clipped, beaten, and bludgeoned her? Strike another chord of revenge, of requital, and renew the process all over again? Spend his lifetime annihilating foes, crying over fallen friends, becoming more and more entrenched in the twisted bedlam of menace and abominations? He wasn’t a healer, not like her, he couldn’t apply salve. He could only rip things apart, slowly, one by one, a methodical, Machiavellian beast starving for release – and he wasn’t sure if he handle one more of his companions dying, helpless, abandoned; always a second, a moment, too late.
The heinous actions, the drumming of wrath, the strung notes of apprehension combined him into an overwhelmed devil. Orsino was no better, simmering on the weight of hate boiling and brewing between them, eager for the fray. But when they appeared, when they approached, the cave harboring the Mender within, he was nearly afraid to go into the shadows – frightened of what lay beyond, if the last image of her embedded in his mind would be her swansong, and not the rich, mischievous strains they’d always managed to pluck.
The lad ducked his head beneath the apertures’ exposition, and his gaze, narrowed in speculation, in trepidation, caught her breathing form (and he nearly loosened a tangible, heartfelt sigh), and something else shifting. Orsino gave forth a muffled snort, a strangled hiss, as if he was too was shocked and surprised at what lay within the catacomb walls: a child nestled and slick and silver, newly born, precious and precocious.
There was a long bridge of silence. Erebos simply didn’t know what to say, what to do, or what to think. One moment he believed another friend had been perilously wounded and he would have to avenge them, and the next, he discovered a babe, clearly hers, eager and rustling amidst the last vestiges of the season. “Enna,” he started, and then his voice, usually so strong, usually so enduring, usually so charismatic and silly, barely dared to go on, scratching at the surface, clinging to ridiculousness. "I thought you were hurt." He tilted his head in various fractions and degrees, trying to sort out the puzzle, the hows and the whys and the whens, but struggled to get any of them out. Instead, he felt a prick against his chest and his head bow against the grain, a low granule of his voice echoing over the bounty, the joy, she must’ve felt. “Congratulations.”
So he stared, over the mass of glaciers and ice, a prince of audacity and boldness, a scion of rancor and immorality, devout and blessed by the frosty crowns nestled between rock and ruin. The day was endless, full of promise, full of daring, full of things boys aspired to be and harpoon on silly stories and drunken delusions – and today, he wasn’t sure what he craved, what he yearned, what he twisted through the foundations of his bones and sinew and muscle. Together, his sable shadow and himself, they rumbled and maneuvered, torn and tied amidst the snowy plain, pondering over ghosts and vigilance, haunting spells of failures and torments, flanking, soulless regards and the way they’d eventually collect all their demons and roast them into one blazing, towering inferno (and how grand it would be; to watch an enemy burst into flame). It would never bring the pieces of his, or another’s, life back, but it would be satisfying, gratifying, to have completed one more goal, to have become strong and unyielding, enduring and unholy, shaped and sculpted and designed by the nefarious sins drifting in and out of their illustrious wake. There would always be time for licentiousness, for trials, for tribulations, for chasing after the sun and becoming blinded by its splendor.
Orsino, poking along various bushes and caverns as they yielded to a state of nomadic inquiries, was the first to note something amiss. His clever, foxy little nose whipped upward, nostrils flaring, coaxing and ensnaring the wisps, the curls, of blood. His eyes narrowed, recognizing various scents, but there were too many blurring together to make sense of the situation – but the reverberation between kitsune and boy was too strong, too apparent, to be ignored or disregarded.
Erebos’ eyes widened, and a sheer state of panic clustered and cloistered his limbs, his figure, his body, and his mind; like a poison, like a sieve, veiling him in horrible connotations and contortions. Enna.
His movements were immediately set in motion – wild and savage, sinister and chaotic, nearly teetering on unhinged, unbalanced. He was too afraid of what he might find buried beneath snow and rubble (and the sickening memories of that little girl pressed in gold and blood were too much to bear, too much to repeat), but the questions were unwinding and obscene. Had something happened to her? And what was he to do if something had clipped, beaten, and bludgeoned her? Strike another chord of revenge, of requital, and renew the process all over again? Spend his lifetime annihilating foes, crying over fallen friends, becoming more and more entrenched in the twisted bedlam of menace and abominations? He wasn’t a healer, not like her, he couldn’t apply salve. He could only rip things apart, slowly, one by one, a methodical, Machiavellian beast starving for release – and he wasn’t sure if he handle one more of his companions dying, helpless, abandoned; always a second, a moment, too late.
The heinous actions, the drumming of wrath, the strung notes of apprehension combined him into an overwhelmed devil. Orsino was no better, simmering on the weight of hate boiling and brewing between them, eager for the fray. But when they appeared, when they approached, the cave harboring the Mender within, he was nearly afraid to go into the shadows – frightened of what lay beyond, if the last image of her embedded in his mind would be her swansong, and not the rich, mischievous strains they’d always managed to pluck.
The lad ducked his head beneath the apertures’ exposition, and his gaze, narrowed in speculation, in trepidation, caught her breathing form (and he nearly loosened a tangible, heartfelt sigh), and something else shifting. Orsino gave forth a muffled snort, a strangled hiss, as if he was too was shocked and surprised at what lay within the catacomb walls: a child nestled and slick and silver, newly born, precious and precocious.
There was a long bridge of silence. Erebos simply didn’t know what to say, what to do, or what to think. One moment he believed another friend had been perilously wounded and he would have to avenge them, and the next, he discovered a babe, clearly hers, eager and rustling amidst the last vestiges of the season. “Enna,” he started, and then his voice, usually so strong, usually so enduring, usually so charismatic and silly, barely dared to go on, scratching at the surface, clinging to ridiculousness. "I thought you were hurt." He tilted his head in various fractions and degrees, trying to sort out the puzzle, the hows and the whys and the whens, but struggled to get any of them out. Instead, he felt a prick against his chest and his head bow against the grain, a low granule of his voice echoing over the bounty, the joy, she must’ve felt. “Congratulations.”
Erebos
clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in
