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05-02-2016, 07:15 PM
Midnight allure and carnivore twilight begged for their release, and the fellow fiends and devils joined the march, the reign, on evening’s decadence. He’d always been enticed by shadows, whether it was because he was descended from fiends (and goodness and light, but he only managed those on his better days), or merely due to the attraction, the allure, to figments of wrath, contempt, and disaster. So as they crawled and danced and simmered their way through the Flats, a prince of water floating on miniature lagoons, skimming along like a sword, like a predacious, gallant force, the darkness touched along his mind, slithered its way into his senses. There was no why, there was no reason, other than pure temptation goading him further, on and on, until they reached the pockets of mist and subterfuge, until he was lulled into absolute ruin, until he pressed against their wares and felt the horrible sting of abominations crouch along his spine. Erebos would’ve run if he weren’t so foolish. He would’ve fled if he weren’t such an audacious, emboldened cretin. Instead, he became a part of the power, bleeding into its force, into its grasp, while it rasped and clenched and held and curled over the edges of his eyes. Then all he saw was bleakness, was poison, were the annals of revenge.
He hadn’t truly known her, not like Aithniel, not like Rikyn. She’d been another one of them, those bright, blistering barbs and bulbs of Basin fortitude. Arwen had grown with the powerful brood, lending herself to the snow and stars, to the ice and mountains, to the peaks and valleys. In time, they likely would’ve been fond of each other.
The only moment he ever sought her out had been on the winding ruins of the Steppe, bolstering his might with shouts and upheavals, with foretold glories and silly stories. He’d followed her scent and thought about playing, about laughter, about telling her about his newfound magic and how her sister was incredible too.
He’d been too late.
Her golden image bled across the snow. Her beauty remained, hardly tarnished, except for where she’d been bludgeoned, crushed, annihilated, and taken. Her breaths were gone. Her heart was still.
Then his gaze had funneled, dark and mutinous, war-bearing and barbaric, towards the one who’d caused it all: the Colossus, only smaller, only stouter, only carrying one dragon. The giant spoke of how he’d done it, of why, and the boy had merely spouted back treachery and venom, but incapable of casting anything more. Not even a stone, not even a touch of his prowess. He’d comprehended nothing, nothing at all, but the poignant lull, the dissonant, quiet sound of her silence and the depths of loss. The youth didn’t even truly understand it then, what it was like for another to die and be gone, but he could comprehend the iniquity, the finality of it all:
He’d failed her.
But he wouldn't again.
It was the same scene, the same image, the same loathsome tapestry he witnessed in the darkest of hours; and he would’ve laughed, there in the labyrinth of his own memories, had the world not proffered it to him in the shape of vengeance, had it not given him some purpose, some reason, to ambitions and aspirations.
But why did it choose to haunt him now?
Erebos’ gaze flickered back and forth, between the shadows and intrigue, between the runes and the disciples of a greater plain – and simply stood, mystified at the chains of memory and gloom.
[First of all, this is badass!
I would like a surprise if chosen/selected. ^__^ I like swords, shields, armors and stuff. But SURPRISES.]
He hadn’t truly known her, not like Aithniel, not like Rikyn. She’d been another one of them, those bright, blistering barbs and bulbs of Basin fortitude. Arwen had grown with the powerful brood, lending herself to the snow and stars, to the ice and mountains, to the peaks and valleys. In time, they likely would’ve been fond of each other.
The only moment he ever sought her out had been on the winding ruins of the Steppe, bolstering his might with shouts and upheavals, with foretold glories and silly stories. He’d followed her scent and thought about playing, about laughter, about telling her about his newfound magic and how her sister was incredible too.
He’d been too late.
Her golden image bled across the snow. Her beauty remained, hardly tarnished, except for where she’d been bludgeoned, crushed, annihilated, and taken. Her breaths were gone. Her heart was still.
Then his gaze had funneled, dark and mutinous, war-bearing and barbaric, towards the one who’d caused it all: the Colossus, only smaller, only stouter, only carrying one dragon. The giant spoke of how he’d done it, of why, and the boy had merely spouted back treachery and venom, but incapable of casting anything more. Not even a stone, not even a touch of his prowess. He’d comprehended nothing, nothing at all, but the poignant lull, the dissonant, quiet sound of her silence and the depths of loss. The youth didn’t even truly understand it then, what it was like for another to die and be gone, but he could comprehend the iniquity, the finality of it all:
He’d failed her.
But he wouldn't again.
It was the same scene, the same image, the same loathsome tapestry he witnessed in the darkest of hours; and he would’ve laughed, there in the labyrinth of his own memories, had the world not proffered it to him in the shape of vengeance, had it not given him some purpose, some reason, to ambitions and aspirations.
But why did it choose to haunt him now?
Erebos’ gaze flickered back and forth, between the shadows and intrigue, between the runes and the disciples of a greater plain – and simply stood, mystified at the chains of memory and gloom.
[First of all, this is badass!
I would like a surprise if chosen/selected. ^__^ I like swords, shields, armors and stuff. But SURPRISES.]
Erebos
clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in
