For all the days he’d spent on earth, watching, witnessing, and processing the ways of those around him, the monster was still shocked by the amount of stupidity shown by those he’d once considered clever.
The latest display bordered on the absolute ridiculous.
He’d recognized the blur of sienna and gold on his borders, had seen it many times with the same boundless energy as his son, chasing after adventures, pursuits, flights of fancy, whatever managed to compel or divert them. He’d initially thought nothing of it. Perhaps the boy had been there to visit Erebos. Maybe he intended to regain status in the herd since his disappearance.
But the way he’d slithered, the way he’d crawled, sinuous and shadowed, stalking the grounds he once lived within…
The Reaper had never imagined, even in his distorted, infernal paranoia and protection, that Illynx’s boy would have attempted anything nefarious in the Aurora Basin – where he’d been born, where he’d been raised, where he’d been capable of carving a name for himself.
Then he’d reached for Sialia – and the chase was on.
Deimos wouldn’t allow it. The Basin had always been perceived as a strong, cunning, predacious chasm, a kingdom controlled, composed, in nefarious intricacies, in unwavering pride, in acrimonious turmoil. How dare this boy believe he could wander in and snag, snatch, and ensnare something, someone, of theirs! The impudence, the gall, the audacity was alarming, incensing, and infuriating, billowing along the zealous, bestial haze clouding his thoughts, his entanglements, his wrath and contempt. Where was his dignity, honor, or intelligence? Didn’t he know the way they marched? The way they persisted? The way they stalked their prey?
It would always be the Reaper hunting them down, one by one.
The King followed the youth on a monstrous battle hymn, limbs steady and unrelenting, crossing over their border lines in a savage crescendo, in a molten, ferocious rhythm. The ferocity, the frustration curling, coiling, and clinging to his muscles, to his core, to his soul, was a grating, unwinding set of sentiments and notions. Should his intentions be to destroy, eradicate, maim, twist and tear apart this silly, stupid delinquent? Should he merely unleash a warning, a proclamation, an exclamation, beat him until he caved, until he learned his lesson?
He pursued the smaller, faster beast along the Frostbreath Steppe, rampaging through the Tallsun heat, the melting snow, the craggy, rock formations they’d once used as shelter. The pain, the torment, the anguish could be orchestrated here – in a land both of them knew well, beneath an insistent, clinging sun, amidst the rush and acrimony of a plan distorted.
His voice bellowed across the horizon, a roar, a howl, a clamor, a rumble of his fury and indignation, his disappointment in a youth once sculpted from peaks and mountains. “What a foolish choice, Rikyn!” Still he came, carving his fervor, his disgust, into the dirt and soil, casting a callous whisper along the icy walls, the glacial structures. “Your mother taught you better than this.”
Perhaps he’d overestimated Rikyn; believed him to be a perfected combination of the Engineer and the GildedBlade, forged along summits, along valleys, wise and arrogant, but capable; he’d always had enough talent to do something other than poach from his old herd. Maybe Deimos had been wrong all along, and the boy was defunct in every way: an idiot, an imbecile.
Looking at him now, a failed thief, a poor representation of everything Ulrik and Illynx had stood for, the Lord chose the latter.
But he wouldn’t catch him at this rate. The idiot would be long-gone, swifter than the titan’s muscled, warlord bulk, trying to catch some other unfortunate being. Another tactic was easily rendered; he knew his tactics, his strengths, his weaknesses, his power, sway, and might.
Ensuring he meant to carry out the punishment for seeking one of his brethren, the beast’s veins, form, figure, coiled into a zealous, brilliant, chaotic thrum; not one of death and demise, but of heat and embers, emblazoned, all-consuming, eager and fervent, ready for the fray. They twisted throughout his barrel, along his ribs, until they nearly engulfed his throat on vibrant, primordial yearning, the heady desire, the antagonistic rush of destruction and mayhem. His jaws parted, and three orbs of fire pulsed, pervaded, and persisted, rushed towards his opponent, attempting to singe his backside.
No one crossed the Basin without retribution. Rikyn should’ve known that.
[Deimos is challenging Rikyn to leave the Aurora Basin alone (no stealing from us) after his failed stealth for Sialia.
Setting: Frostbreath Steppe, around mid-morning, across from some rocks, caverns, etc, along an open plain of melting snow. Hot, hazy, humid.
1/4 posts + 0/1 defense. 740 words.
Deimos cannot reach Rikyn on speed alone, so he uses his fire magic (around 8 or 9 meters away from Rikyn) to create three fire balls, intending to fire them at Rikyn’s hind end.]
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One More Word and You Won't Survive [Rikyn Challenge]
