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04-03-2016, 09:12 AM
There were days, months, seasons where all he did was crave. He stared into the oblivion and simply wanted everything and anything in his path: destruction, mayhem, corruption, glory; if it had a name, if it had a tangible entity, he hoped to snag it for himself. Even things seemingly so far out of his reach (friends back together, musketeers brandishing cutlasses and flourishing across the countryside, all for one and one for all) tugged and tangled within the demon’s mind like a chokehold, like a salvation, like an endless piece of sanctity and sanctuary. He was used to the noose, he was comfortable in yearning, in longing, in hankering for moments and foundations and lives he couldn’t have, because it gave him something to hold onto, it gave him something to cherish, it gave him a reason to continue fighting. The scars, the Machiavellian schemes, the traces of heartache and depravity would be worth it in the end – he was certain. He was sure. One day, he’d awaken capable and ready, fervent and ardent, slashing his sword through painted hide, through dreaded, horrible, vile flesh and watching it boil down into nothing.
But on this drizzly, Birdsong morning, he chose to appreciate the things he did have. It was difficult to surmise all the notions, all the sentiments, all the wild, untamed, savage bits of him had managed to grow into more than a fumbling, stumbling soul, had somehow taken his experiences and become a beast of note, of recognition. The fiend was nothing legendary, nothing exceptional, but maybe, just maybe, prowess on the rise.
He had his family, either in shadows or corporeal existence – his mother rained upon him now as he touched his feet to the river and slithered across its rippling force. His sire led the Basin with his brutal, calculating, cold devotion, and his sister scattered amongst the stars, and his dam lay in between the unknown and the clouds (so he turned his face towards her now, smiled and gave thanks for her warmth, her delicacy).
He had his herd, conniving and chilling as they were, and wove his dedication within their sanction because if there was one thing Deimos had always taught him, it was loyalty, and the boy knelt in ice and snow and laid waste to weakness. The miniature infidel had taken a rank, soldier, and it meant more than a tripping, faltering fool – it held precision in its name, a warrior embrace, a catastrophic balance to the scars mottling his hide and the trenches he labored within. It presided as a gateway to his desires, as a bridge to his wanton hopes, for one day all the senses honed, all the piercing, keen notes pressed against his skull, would be enough to vanquish his foes.
He had his friends, even when they seemed few and far between. Even when they weren’t there beside him, frolicking and laughing as they once did, they were still locked away in his memories, and no one could take that away from him. They were beautiful depictions of a life he’d taken for granted, of moments lost amidst the splendor, of shattered pieces and remnants of scalding, elegant wings, Cheshire grins, and plots that would never come to fruition. Maybe one day he’d see his childhood friends again, and they could stitch their seams back together (and it would be glorious).
He had Orsino. Even if he was an abominable, scathing, vindictive soul, they were tied together now, knots on a gnarled, vile string. The little beast had led him down darkened corridors and Stygian pursuits, and Erebos regretted none of it, clouded and mired and moored down in the muck and brine of their connection. They were stuck, entangled, side by side with blistering damnation and insistent, barbaric corruption simmering below their brows; and in some time, they’d be unstoppable.
He had his magic – it crooned and christened, it blistered and scalded. It was molten and devastating, chaotic and fractious, and every bit a part of him as he moved, as he swindled, as he smiled. It anointed him Poseidon of the river, it threw him into fire and brimstone, it shackled him to the bindings of immorality and decadence, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into each savage embrace.
Even now, Erebos was lost to its divine powers, scaling across the water’s edge, dancing, floating, rampaging along the folds of the brook, racing its unwinding, unraveling ribbons as it flowed in various directions. He chose the left and pretended to chase after demons, saw their vehement shells and struck the air with his sword, a combatant of the misty dawn, drinking in the vicious waters and the cool, entangling stroke of spring fruition. The beast beloved the honing of his strength, the undulating coil of his muscles, the endurance, the persistence, the perseverance surging through his veins – ignoring Orsino’s grumbling along the riverbank as he followed the mighty warrior – and clutched for what he held dear.
[Open to anyone! ^_^]
But on this drizzly, Birdsong morning, he chose to appreciate the things he did have. It was difficult to surmise all the notions, all the sentiments, all the wild, untamed, savage bits of him had managed to grow into more than a fumbling, stumbling soul, had somehow taken his experiences and become a beast of note, of recognition. The fiend was nothing legendary, nothing exceptional, but maybe, just maybe, prowess on the rise.
He had his family, either in shadows or corporeal existence – his mother rained upon him now as he touched his feet to the river and slithered across its rippling force. His sire led the Basin with his brutal, calculating, cold devotion, and his sister scattered amongst the stars, and his dam lay in between the unknown and the clouds (so he turned his face towards her now, smiled and gave thanks for her warmth, her delicacy).
He had his herd, conniving and chilling as they were, and wove his dedication within their sanction because if there was one thing Deimos had always taught him, it was loyalty, and the boy knelt in ice and snow and laid waste to weakness. The miniature infidel had taken a rank, soldier, and it meant more than a tripping, faltering fool – it held precision in its name, a warrior embrace, a catastrophic balance to the scars mottling his hide and the trenches he labored within. It presided as a gateway to his desires, as a bridge to his wanton hopes, for one day all the senses honed, all the piercing, keen notes pressed against his skull, would be enough to vanquish his foes.
He had his friends, even when they seemed few and far between. Even when they weren’t there beside him, frolicking and laughing as they once did, they were still locked away in his memories, and no one could take that away from him. They were beautiful depictions of a life he’d taken for granted, of moments lost amidst the splendor, of shattered pieces and remnants of scalding, elegant wings, Cheshire grins, and plots that would never come to fruition. Maybe one day he’d see his childhood friends again, and they could stitch their seams back together (and it would be glorious).
He had Orsino. Even if he was an abominable, scathing, vindictive soul, they were tied together now, knots on a gnarled, vile string. The little beast had led him down darkened corridors and Stygian pursuits, and Erebos regretted none of it, clouded and mired and moored down in the muck and brine of their connection. They were stuck, entangled, side by side with blistering damnation and insistent, barbaric corruption simmering below their brows; and in some time, they’d be unstoppable.
He had his magic – it crooned and christened, it blistered and scalded. It was molten and devastating, chaotic and fractious, and every bit a part of him as he moved, as he swindled, as he smiled. It anointed him Poseidon of the river, it threw him into fire and brimstone, it shackled him to the bindings of immorality and decadence, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into each savage embrace.
Even now, Erebos was lost to its divine powers, scaling across the water’s edge, dancing, floating, rampaging along the folds of the brook, racing its unwinding, unraveling ribbons as it flowed in various directions. He chose the left and pretended to chase after demons, saw their vehement shells and struck the air with his sword, a combatant of the misty dawn, drinking in the vicious waters and the cool, entangling stroke of spring fruition. The beast beloved the honing of his strength, the undulating coil of his muscles, the endurance, the persistence, the perseverance surging through his veins – ignoring Orsino’s grumbling along the riverbank as he followed the mighty warrior – and clutched for what he held dear.
[Open to anyone! ^_^]
Erebos
clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in
