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01-21-2016, 01:15 AM
one must never learn to fear the demons in the world,
and must instead choose to embrace them
and must instead choose to embrace them
Driven deep underground, the attachment to the child’s mother’s side is threaded tightly with silver strings that dive for blood and scars when it is dared to be broken. Even now, in his ever-growing state, there is the small need to see something else, something others might not enjoy, but where he can thrive like the creature of shadows he has become. They’ve built him out of their own bodies, selfishly tearing away pieces of their black masses to construct a boy who will grow into his muscles, towards the height that gives him the ability to tower with white eyes shrouded with hate and ill intention, shaded over with the stain of darkness.
But not all kings of darkness, the depths and the unseen, the horrors that drive others to madness begin out as perfect examples of their right in this world. There is learning to be done, and while his mother still worries with each passing second of what he’ll become, lacing him with manners and laws to this world he thinks might be fun to rebel from, there is always another to fill in the gaps.
The beast that she is bonded to follows him with reluctance today, flying ahead with storm cloud wings to assure that their passage is clear of whatever may harm him, acting as given gift that he worships the very presence of. Hobgoblin, a name after days of practice and repetition that he’s come to master only with his mother’s aid.
That, with a few other words, such as dragon, sky, Zhu, which is surprisingly what his mother has decided to call him, a name fit for a master of the depths, Sia, the name of his mother, Ma, and hello. A few manners follows in with them but he cannot seem to grasp them perfectly, no matter the length of time spent between you and your mother that is spent trying.
It is through Hobgoblin that he learns that words speak louder than actions.
Within the dungeon, there is no need for those damned words, no need for the eyes that pain him when the light attempt to tear them from his very hands and leave him blinded. A newfound gift, one loud and shrill that paints him a picture of what is about him, guides him with a held hand.
And oh, what gifts there are to be found.
The stretches are deep, the turns and holes in the floor and walls all offering new things where the average wouldn’t dare to venture. It is only the blade-mouthed bat that takes him away from this wonderful place, clutching to the long tail that swishes back and forth with annoyance with each step. Screams ripple from his gift up until something else, something fresh comes into view. Black eyelids rise like heavy curtains to present two perfect full moons filling his eye sockets, watching with curiosity as an event unfolds before him.
Two skull faced children against a large man painted with the oddest colours he’d ever seen. No words come to mind as of how to describe him, but it is needless to say that the boy cannot keep himself from being intrigued.
Hobgoblin’s claws are kind but firm when they grasp his white spine, digging into the night coat draped across his features. There is a need to ask what is occurring before him, why someone of his own size would stand before a greater in a way that he’d only seen his mother do so. Would there be more rain from the eyes of the older horse? Would he have to suffer through another episode of seeing another spill their useless emotions across the floor, or would this be different? Their words are not yet clear, but he is desperate to know.
Inside the casket for words that his brain has become, each deformed syllable churns without rest, looking for a cure to this longing.
OOC: Just sort of standing off to the side and watching as of the moment. Hobgoblin is with him and in the form of a silver Wyvern.
@Sabre
