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04-09-2016, 06:32 AM
For all his iniquitous curiosity, the boy merely stared down into the depths for some time, slowly wandering his way into the brink of caverns and underworld precisions. The kitsune shuffled along as if he’d been born from the wretched passages (when in fact he’d hatched within the shade of the Deep Forest; perhaps his other monstrous versions all came from the same place and were sent anywhere and everywhere), grumbling all the while as his golden eyes took in the dark, Stygian crag. Erebos unwound, bit-by-bit, notion-by-notion, until he was a roaming piece of distinct, undeniable intrigue, but with no where to truly go. To the fiery pits, where his bloodline hailed from, where Ignatius stirred brilliant cinders amidst his blood, veins, and soul? Down into the catacombs and crypts, where Hell stoked and death rattled? The potential was lingering, pressing on his chest as he extended a warm breath into the lava plumes and the haunting magma, but his interest only truly stirred as a raucous sound bounded and ricocheted off the cavern walls.
Erebos! - he’s recognize that tone, that yell, from miles away. The beast’s face twisted into one of such enthusiasm, delight, and exuberance, forgetting the traces of why they’d been apart, separated, burned and embittered (if he was supposed to be mad at Rikyn, if Rikyn was supposed to be angry at him, or if they were both simply hurt by Aithniel’s confession of Gods and daughters, left alone to be mere mortals without her). They barely avoid colliding, and the dark scion couldn’t have cared had they broken bones smashing and crashing into one another, throwing his weight towards the other prince’s in a show of good fortune, friendship, and wild, savage things that never truly went away. “Rikyn!” His voice broke into a thousand wishes, hopes, and dreams (little musketeer cutlasses slashing through the wind), and melancholy vibes were tossed aside, out in the open, along the veneer, without a trace of rancor. “What have you been up to?” He asked, he questioned, as the other did the same to him, and sadly he didn’t have much to tell except of failure and triumph, except of clambering onto a soldier rank merely so one day he’d have enough strength to brutalize and annihilate his enemies. Perhaps Rikyn had been off saving king and country, collecting vast empires, shoving opponents off of cliffs; and the Reaper’s son wouldn’t be able to hold a candle tot hat. Still, he provided an answer without pretense or masks, they’d always been children of the same cloth, full of fire, damnation, but truthful, barbaric, to one another. “I’ve recently taken the rank of Soldier in the Basin.” His smile remained, sculpted and infinite, building and brimming with the exuberance, the enthrallment, of their meeting, uttering oaths and assurances. “One day I’ll be strong enough to avenge Arwen.” He nodded, as if conversations of vengeance were common-place for their rogue, blackguard natures. But it showed his purpose, his renewal, his determination to sink into the labyrinths of ferocity and violence, how he remembered those he cherished. Orsino, for his small, minute part, gave a grunt of agreement in the hallowed, hollowed room. Maybe, one day, their dreams and aspirations could combine into one archaic, mutinous display of sweet, brilliant rebellion, and everyone would remember who they were and what they stood for.
Erebos! - he’s recognize that tone, that yell, from miles away. The beast’s face twisted into one of such enthusiasm, delight, and exuberance, forgetting the traces of why they’d been apart, separated, burned and embittered (if he was supposed to be mad at Rikyn, if Rikyn was supposed to be angry at him, or if they were both simply hurt by Aithniel’s confession of Gods and daughters, left alone to be mere mortals without her). They barely avoid colliding, and the dark scion couldn’t have cared had they broken bones smashing and crashing into one another, throwing his weight towards the other prince’s in a show of good fortune, friendship, and wild, savage things that never truly went away. “Rikyn!” His voice broke into a thousand wishes, hopes, and dreams (little musketeer cutlasses slashing through the wind), and melancholy vibes were tossed aside, out in the open, along the veneer, without a trace of rancor. “What have you been up to?” He asked, he questioned, as the other did the same to him, and sadly he didn’t have much to tell except of failure and triumph, except of clambering onto a soldier rank merely so one day he’d have enough strength to brutalize and annihilate his enemies. Perhaps Rikyn had been off saving king and country, collecting vast empires, shoving opponents off of cliffs; and the Reaper’s son wouldn’t be able to hold a candle tot hat. Still, he provided an answer without pretense or masks, they’d always been children of the same cloth, full of fire, damnation, but truthful, barbaric, to one another. “I’ve recently taken the rank of Soldier in the Basin.” His smile remained, sculpted and infinite, building and brimming with the exuberance, the enthrallment, of their meeting, uttering oaths and assurances. “One day I’ll be strong enough to avenge Arwen.” He nodded, as if conversations of vengeance were common-place for their rogue, blackguard natures. But it showed his purpose, his renewal, his determination to sink into the labyrinths of ferocity and violence, how he remembered those he cherished. Orsino, for his small, minute part, gave a grunt of agreement in the hallowed, hollowed room. Maybe, one day, their dreams and aspirations could combine into one archaic, mutinous display of sweet, brilliant rebellion, and everyone would remember who they were and what they stood for.
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
@Rikyn
