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02-17-2016, 07:43 AM
The prince was utterly useless, standing there amongst the cave and cobwebs, struggling to decipher the meaning of everything within. The unknown twisted and gnarled, convoluting and contorting his thoughts into broken pieces and ire, unspoken exasperation, and boyish, silly frustrations. Her words bounded and ricocheted along the walls, playing off his concerns, his worries, his fears, as if nothing mattered, as if she were utterly incapable of being marked, wounded, and destroyed. The boy’s ears twisted and one pinned along his skull; irritated that he was being written off again, that he was nothing, no one, and his sentiments had little bearing. He’d seen too much to know, to understand, that no soul was unassailable. Why shouldn’t he worry about her, just as he’d always done with his friends, with those he cared for? A roll of indignation sparked from his lips, pierced by her thin smile (like this was one more game, one more essence of mischief – but even the little demon knew better), rolling along the catacomb walls. “Why would I want to see you hurt?” He narrowed his gaze, shuttered those wild, untamed, savage hints of blue, looking away from mare to son, attempting to dislodge the vicious shock of anger unwinding through him. The tiny child didn’t deserve the wrath or ire flicking off the infidel’s mercurial form – none of them did, really. But he was so lost, so indignant, so annoyed by the entire situation – the way she believed herself invulnerable, the way she thought naught of his trepidation, that his words sputtered in a burst cluster of secrets and covert designs. “I’m tired of seeing my friends in pain,” he spoke, head lowered, eyes sanctioned to the floor, to the stone, wishing he could somehow melt into it, be swallowed up by the earth. He might have said more, he might have proclaimed naught, but another approached.
He didn’t know the blue femme with her swinging, singsong shells and her elegant smile, and he shifted out of her way, sheepish and stupid, billowing into an open corner where he could survey, think, and try to formulate something beyond the weight of his discontent. The lad was one more piece of the woodwork and adornments; an ornament of ridiculousness tethered to the walls. We shouldn’t have come he prospered to Orsino, allowing the heady barbs of regret to pour through their connection, but the fox only narrowed his stare and shook his head, shocked at the level of foolishness his bonded could emote. But instead of leaving, instead of departing, he listened to their quiet words, to the trickling of notions and phrases (he takes after his father), glancing off into the landscape of snowy hillsides and ignoring the gnawing in his gut; clenching his jaw, mauling down ivories and enamel.
A shift of movement caught his eye; foreign, unknown, strangely appearing from thin air. His own motions are abrupt and swift, quick and enhanced by the dangerous, treacherous way in which Enna’s syllables struck. Another beast, only announcing his presence by silence (how dare he, the soldier thought, tread where he’s unwanted), wafted and wandered, blowing and billowing a caress towards the child. He knew nothing (an obvious pattern in today’s progression) about the other stag, about the rhyme or reason he was here (was he the sire?), but Enna’s keen, blunt chords were enough to regard the stranger as an opponent, as an enemy, as a threat.
I can take care of myself, she’d said, but Erebos ignored it this time.
He maneuvered to her side, in front of the boy, stationing himself as sentinel and blackguard, eerily calm, strangely composed, treacherously, dangerously close to the foreigner. The prince thought naught of the height, age, and weight differences, prospering only the lingering, chaotic potency of his notions, of his sentiments, of his Mephistophelean designs. “Leave,” he echoed, rapacious and belligerent, abhorrent and vile, rankling the coils of his hatred, of his wrath, eager to proffer his frustrations and anger on someone (anyone, anything). He offered his knife, his sword, his horn, and he extended the note of his incantations – it would take nothing, no time at all, to bring them to fruition.
He didn’t know the blue femme with her swinging, singsong shells and her elegant smile, and he shifted out of her way, sheepish and stupid, billowing into an open corner where he could survey, think, and try to formulate something beyond the weight of his discontent. The lad was one more piece of the woodwork and adornments; an ornament of ridiculousness tethered to the walls. We shouldn’t have come he prospered to Orsino, allowing the heady barbs of regret to pour through their connection, but the fox only narrowed his stare and shook his head, shocked at the level of foolishness his bonded could emote. But instead of leaving, instead of departing, he listened to their quiet words, to the trickling of notions and phrases (he takes after his father), glancing off into the landscape of snowy hillsides and ignoring the gnawing in his gut; clenching his jaw, mauling down ivories and enamel.
A shift of movement caught his eye; foreign, unknown, strangely appearing from thin air. His own motions are abrupt and swift, quick and enhanced by the dangerous, treacherous way in which Enna’s syllables struck. Another beast, only announcing his presence by silence (how dare he, the soldier thought, tread where he’s unwanted), wafted and wandered, blowing and billowing a caress towards the child. He knew nothing (an obvious pattern in today’s progression) about the other stag, about the rhyme or reason he was here (was he the sire?), but Enna’s keen, blunt chords were enough to regard the stranger as an opponent, as an enemy, as a threat.
I can take care of myself, she’d said, but Erebos ignored it this time.
He maneuvered to her side, in front of the boy, stationing himself as sentinel and blackguard, eerily calm, strangely composed, treacherously, dangerously close to the foreigner. The prince thought naught of the height, age, and weight differences, prospering only the lingering, chaotic potency of his notions, of his sentiments, of his Mephistophelean designs. “Leave,” he echoed, rapacious and belligerent, abhorrent and vile, rankling the coils of his hatred, of his wrath, eager to proffer his frustrations and anger on someone (anyone, anything). He offered his knife, his sword, his horn, and he extended the note of his incantations – it would take nothing, no time at all, to bring them to fruition.
Erebos
clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in
