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05-08-2016, 01:22 PM
He was being summoned.
It wasn’t often that he adhered to someone else’s bidding or call. His sire and friends were one thing, but others quite another. The fiend was accustomed to doing things at his own pace, whether leisurely, swiftly, or somewhere in the middle. He wandered, he ventured, he crusaded when he felt ready, comfortable, or particularly fervent. Erebos maneuvered for his own means, motioned for his own reasons, methods, plots, ruses, and campaigns – but remembered the grounds of the Basin, like a good little soldier, forging onward while all his blackguard plans ricocheted, bounded, through his mind. The boy was not disloyal, faithless, or fickle; he simply had his own scores to settle, and he didn’t know which should be measured, calculated, and destroyed first.
Orsino cackled alongside him as they bridged over ice and caverns, hissing about meetings and the latest, disastrous one. Erebos had attempted to be a calming, princely, noble voice while the rest of their world crackled around them. But he’d bend, he’d meander, he’d bow his head to the General (the starred one, he remembered, rising from Corporal status, the one who’d tried to trick and deceive him while she lingered in pain, nearly on the ground from the strikes and blows he’d given her), like an esteemed, respectable scion. He’d play one of his many parts. He’d become stronger for the herd, for himself, and for the demons he wanted to vanquish. He’d conquer foes, he’d unravel contempt, he’d consume, devour, those who wished his brethren, his companions, and his kin harm. He’d prosper and damn all for the sake of snow and mountains, brethren and dissolution.
The growing beast followed the call, winding his way towards the flat, grassy terrain, where Birdsong peeked within the wintery threshold. At his approach, he lowered his head in a gesture of esteem, while Orsino bristled against him in his mind (why bow to someone you’ve already defeated? the fox asked, to which Erebos gave no answer). The boy then dragged his crown upward, filled his features with easygoing platitudes, with devilish regard, with cheeky grins and charismatic regard; all the world his stage. “General Ki’irha.”
Then he listened, listened, and listened as she proclaimed of more work to be done, of dwindling numbers, of strengthening and training themselves. He didn’t tell her of the success he’d gathered (because somewhere else there had been losses, stinging and brutal), of the magic he harbored (desecration and ruin, corruption and deceit, embers and coils and water kneeling at his feet), the disasters he’d come across, or the monsters he intended to maim. They were his problems, trials, tribulations, and eventually, his triumph. So instead of laying out his secrets, his serpentine, surreptitious wiles, he merely fell into the restless void, waiting for someone else to bring their voice to light.
It wasn’t often that he adhered to someone else’s bidding or call. His sire and friends were one thing, but others quite another. The fiend was accustomed to doing things at his own pace, whether leisurely, swiftly, or somewhere in the middle. He wandered, he ventured, he crusaded when he felt ready, comfortable, or particularly fervent. Erebos maneuvered for his own means, motioned for his own reasons, methods, plots, ruses, and campaigns – but remembered the grounds of the Basin, like a good little soldier, forging onward while all his blackguard plans ricocheted, bounded, through his mind. The boy was not disloyal, faithless, or fickle; he simply had his own scores to settle, and he didn’t know which should be measured, calculated, and destroyed first.
Orsino cackled alongside him as they bridged over ice and caverns, hissing about meetings and the latest, disastrous one. Erebos had attempted to be a calming, princely, noble voice while the rest of their world crackled around them. But he’d bend, he’d meander, he’d bow his head to the General (the starred one, he remembered, rising from Corporal status, the one who’d tried to trick and deceive him while she lingered in pain, nearly on the ground from the strikes and blows he’d given her), like an esteemed, respectable scion. He’d play one of his many parts. He’d become stronger for the herd, for himself, and for the demons he wanted to vanquish. He’d conquer foes, he’d unravel contempt, he’d consume, devour, those who wished his brethren, his companions, and his kin harm. He’d prosper and damn all for the sake of snow and mountains, brethren and dissolution.
The growing beast followed the call, winding his way towards the flat, grassy terrain, where Birdsong peeked within the wintery threshold. At his approach, he lowered his head in a gesture of esteem, while Orsino bristled against him in his mind (why bow to someone you’ve already defeated? the fox asked, to which Erebos gave no answer). The boy then dragged his crown upward, filled his features with easygoing platitudes, with devilish regard, with cheeky grins and charismatic regard; all the world his stage. “General Ki’irha.”
Then he listened, listened, and listened as she proclaimed of more work to be done, of dwindling numbers, of strengthening and training themselves. He didn’t tell her of the success he’d gathered (because somewhere else there had been losses, stinging and brutal), of the magic he harbored (desecration and ruin, corruption and deceit, embers and coils and water kneeling at his feet), the disasters he’d come across, or the monsters he intended to maim. They were his problems, trials, tribulations, and eventually, his triumph. So instead of laying out his secrets, his serpentine, surreptitious wiles, he merely fell into the restless void, waiting for someone else to bring their voice to light.
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
