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04-03-2016, 06:28 AM
Erebos was a wandering blade, a forged tempest, a writhing, wrathful plume of foreshadowed decadence and Machiavellian strife – grown from the scalding walls of vengeance and depravity, from death and rain, from Cheshire grins and charismatic wiles. The passing season morphed him into less boy and more man. The lanky, limber columns suddenly seemed fitting, the piercing slate of his eyes suddenly seemed enigmatic (tortured? By the weight of how things were and how they were destined to be?), and the juncture of his movements suddenly seemed poised, lacking evident stumbles, or faltering steps. Drenched in the fine sinew of undulating muscles and coiled, pernicious, promising ventures, he chiseled his way through the foundations of the earth with a glimmering smile and an effervescent ploy. He laid snares behind his footpaths and beyond shadows, he fixated ruses to his brow, he gazed at power and wanted it for himself. But for all his journeys, for all his hardships, for all his wishes and yearnings and cravings, he felt he had little to show for it.
The infidel had his companion, had his dreams, had his ambitions. He had scars to prove fruitless tactics or scathing wishes. He had the mettle, the grit, the determination to continue laboring on and on, presiding upon a precipice of the highest order so that one day he could annihilate the beast who’d dared to take his friend.
But where was everything else? Where were the pieces of his past he loved and labored upon? Where was Rikyn? Gone again to crypts and catacombs, to other lands to become stronger, to bite into what he hungered for? Where was Aithniel, daughter of a God (and was he even allowed to wonder about her; or was that stepping over some mortal, unworthy boundary?)? Where was Adelric, once his best friend, and gone on a whisper of wind? Why did he seem to lose everything he thought precious, wonderful, and divine? Why, whenever he glanced towards something else that had caught his eye, his scent, his aspirations, did it seem as though another moment, another beast, another priceless piece disappeared?
Was it because he always hankered? Was it punishment for his greed, for his coveting, mercenary measures? Was it because the world knew him for what he truly was?
After all, a son of the Reaper would always know the touch and taste of corruption. He could try, pretend, masquerade, and flaunt those charitable grins and winsome smiles, but the depths of his soul had cracked; hate had been such an insatiable poison.
The demon didn’t see wrath, damnation, or contempt here though, along the wide, opening crevasse. He saw an earth opened, a Hell, a netherworld channel gaping and inviting its citizens to dwell within the reaches of its immoral sanctity. He saw opportunity, he saw chances, he saw failure (everywhere he looked there was a place where he’d faltered, where he’d erred), and the brooding, scathing ripples of his heart had had enough of the follies sketched in youth. It was time to seize, to shackle, to tear apart the seams of what had made him weak and pathetic. It was time to snatch and grind, to forget and forgive, and to repent for a life anew. Erebos would be remembered, he was sure, he was certain, not for the endless errors or the ridiculous debacles, but for glory, for defiance, for perseverance in slaying the cretins haunting his soul.
The prince, accompanied by his savage fox, narrowed his eyes and stepped upon the path of brimstone.
or
The infidel had his companion, had his dreams, had his ambitions. He had scars to prove fruitless tactics or scathing wishes. He had the mettle, the grit, the determination to continue laboring on and on, presiding upon a precipice of the highest order so that one day he could annihilate the beast who’d dared to take his friend.
But where was everything else? Where were the pieces of his past he loved and labored upon? Where was Rikyn? Gone again to crypts and catacombs, to other lands to become stronger, to bite into what he hungered for? Where was Aithniel, daughter of a God (and was he even allowed to wonder about her; or was that stepping over some mortal, unworthy boundary?)? Where was Adelric, once his best friend, and gone on a whisper of wind? Why did he seem to lose everything he thought precious, wonderful, and divine? Why, whenever he glanced towards something else that had caught his eye, his scent, his aspirations, did it seem as though another moment, another beast, another priceless piece disappeared?
Was it because he always hankered? Was it punishment for his greed, for his coveting, mercenary measures? Was it because the world knew him for what he truly was?
After all, a son of the Reaper would always know the touch and taste of corruption. He could try, pretend, masquerade, and flaunt those charitable grins and winsome smiles, but the depths of his soul had cracked; hate had been such an insatiable poison.
The demon didn’t see wrath, damnation, or contempt here though, along the wide, opening crevasse. He saw an earth opened, a Hell, a netherworld channel gaping and inviting its citizens to dwell within the reaches of its immoral sanctity. He saw opportunity, he saw chances, he saw failure (everywhere he looked there was a place where he’d faltered, where he’d erred), and the brooding, scathing ripples of his heart had had enough of the follies sketched in youth. It was time to seize, to shackle, to tear apart the seams of what had made him weak and pathetic. It was time to snatch and grind, to forget and forgive, and to repent for a life anew. Erebos would be remembered, he was sure, he was certain, not for the endless errors or the ridiculous debacles, but for glory, for defiance, for perseverance in slaying the cretins haunting his soul.
The prince, accompanied by his savage fox, narrowed his eyes and stepped upon the path of brimstone.
or
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
@Rikyn
