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05-24-2016, 06:03 PM
You’ll find a purpose.
Wasn’t that everyone’s intention in life? To search for something, anything, that caused them to wake in the morning, chisel and sculpt their way through lands, runes, and empires? Wasn’t everyone coated in ambition, in aspirations, in desires that fueled, that incensed, that ensured their life was worth meaning?
Perhaps the prince was blinded by his own ventures. He’d been born craving everything – items, objects, knowledge, to become superior to everyone in every way. He’d watched the cold world spin around him, follow his father through reigning orders, listen to his mother on practical, noteworthy things, and chase after his friends down into networks, warrens, and paths of frenzy and mischief. He’d carved devilish notions from innocent deeds, he’d lied and practiced pretenses, and he’d watched a friend become nothing more than a soft, porcelain object in the snow. He’d embarked on blackened moments of complete, utter rage and wrath, whittled anger until it was poison, corruption, and fire on his tongue, in his figure, boiling and simmering, seething and tormenting. He’d smiled, then snickered, believed, then trembled, wanted, then lost. He’d stood friends on precipices and watched them fall. He’d traversed across the earth looking for murderers and battling monsters. He’d yearned, studied, and gained a companion, another devil on his broad, brawny shoulders. He’d promised vengeance. He’d offered his namesake on oaths and assurances. He’d battled friends and allies, brethren and kin, in order to become better, stronger, quicker, swifter, powerful, tenacious, unbending, and unbroken.
But Erebos didn’t know what she coveted, and by all accounts, neither did she. Her existence seemed tangled and webbed by others, by concepts of what used to be, by sentiments and emotions no longer gathered by existing mortals. Perhaps she was in a transition, fearful of becoming absolutely nothing at all – one more piece of wind, one more speck of dust, one more rustic, forgotten piece of earth. She didn’t deserve that – no creature or cretin did, but so many managed it all the same. They wandered into forgotten mires, faces to names, shapes to figures, numbers to herds, then gone a season later, intangible, unseen, as if they’d been a part of the fog or mist. Maybe, by rummaging through the history texts, by conspiring over ruins and tracing foundations, she could find something of her own to claim. There had to be inspiration, muse, layered and lacquered over the wintry realm. It had been her mother’s throne, her dam’s castle, her lineage’s reign. Through all the ghosts, wraiths, and phantom tapestries, he had no doubt she’d find a stroke, a spark, a chilling catalyst.
So the little beast, with his gallant heart and nefarious devilry, settled upon making their wayfaring journey amusing and diverting. As they crossed over valleys, he regaled her with silly movements and motions, interpretations of dances and waltzes, goofy caricatures and characterization of jester marionettes. As they wound their way through rivers and streams, he leaped along their foamy edges and stood upright over their waves, pretending he was Poseidon. As they ducked beneath boughs and branches he told her wild stories, all true, of how he’d scoured the countryside searching for an egg (even the tale of the giant turkey beneath the earth, how he’d cooked and polished and nothing had come of it except the feathers – and when he was sure she wouldn’t believe him, the boy showed her the massive wings he’d kept tucked in his mane). He was careful, quiet, about things that motivated him, because beneath the ruffian glamor and bestial charisma was a barbaric, bitter, rancorous boy who hungered for naught but revenge - and instead, as they traversed beneath the decaying Sentinels, he simply grinned, inviting. “Welcome back to the Basin,” he winked, he laughed, he smiled, before marching beyond the grave guards, and permitting her to dictate their scene. “What would you like to do first?” Explore? Speak with his father? Find out every avenue Psyche had traveled? This was her journey, and she had to be the one to write it.
Wasn’t that everyone’s intention in life? To search for something, anything, that caused them to wake in the morning, chisel and sculpt their way through lands, runes, and empires? Wasn’t everyone coated in ambition, in aspirations, in desires that fueled, that incensed, that ensured their life was worth meaning?
Perhaps the prince was blinded by his own ventures. He’d been born craving everything – items, objects, knowledge, to become superior to everyone in every way. He’d watched the cold world spin around him, follow his father through reigning orders, listen to his mother on practical, noteworthy things, and chase after his friends down into networks, warrens, and paths of frenzy and mischief. He’d carved devilish notions from innocent deeds, he’d lied and practiced pretenses, and he’d watched a friend become nothing more than a soft, porcelain object in the snow. He’d embarked on blackened moments of complete, utter rage and wrath, whittled anger until it was poison, corruption, and fire on his tongue, in his figure, boiling and simmering, seething and tormenting. He’d smiled, then snickered, believed, then trembled, wanted, then lost. He’d stood friends on precipices and watched them fall. He’d traversed across the earth looking for murderers and battling monsters. He’d yearned, studied, and gained a companion, another devil on his broad, brawny shoulders. He’d promised vengeance. He’d offered his namesake on oaths and assurances. He’d battled friends and allies, brethren and kin, in order to become better, stronger, quicker, swifter, powerful, tenacious, unbending, and unbroken.
But Erebos didn’t know what she coveted, and by all accounts, neither did she. Her existence seemed tangled and webbed by others, by concepts of what used to be, by sentiments and emotions no longer gathered by existing mortals. Perhaps she was in a transition, fearful of becoming absolutely nothing at all – one more piece of wind, one more speck of dust, one more rustic, forgotten piece of earth. She didn’t deserve that – no creature or cretin did, but so many managed it all the same. They wandered into forgotten mires, faces to names, shapes to figures, numbers to herds, then gone a season later, intangible, unseen, as if they’d been a part of the fog or mist. Maybe, by rummaging through the history texts, by conspiring over ruins and tracing foundations, she could find something of her own to claim. There had to be inspiration, muse, layered and lacquered over the wintry realm. It had been her mother’s throne, her dam’s castle, her lineage’s reign. Through all the ghosts, wraiths, and phantom tapestries, he had no doubt she’d find a stroke, a spark, a chilling catalyst.
So the little beast, with his gallant heart and nefarious devilry, settled upon making their wayfaring journey amusing and diverting. As they crossed over valleys, he regaled her with silly movements and motions, interpretations of dances and waltzes, goofy caricatures and characterization of jester marionettes. As they wound their way through rivers and streams, he leaped along their foamy edges and stood upright over their waves, pretending he was Poseidon. As they ducked beneath boughs and branches he told her wild stories, all true, of how he’d scoured the countryside searching for an egg (even the tale of the giant turkey beneath the earth, how he’d cooked and polished and nothing had come of it except the feathers – and when he was sure she wouldn’t believe him, the boy showed her the massive wings he’d kept tucked in his mane). He was careful, quiet, about things that motivated him, because beneath the ruffian glamor and bestial charisma was a barbaric, bitter, rancorous boy who hungered for naught but revenge - and instead, as they traversed beneath the decaying Sentinels, he simply grinned, inviting. “Welcome back to the Basin,” he winked, he laughed, he smiled, before marching beyond the grave guards, and permitting her to dictate their scene. “What would you like to do first?” Explore? Speak with his father? Find out every avenue Psyche had traveled? This was her journey, and she had to be the one to write it.
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
@Själ
