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02-09-2017, 03:16 PM
“A rather reputable talent, nonetheless.” He laughed, not mocking, but purely amused, a tinge of mischief springing across his tongue, because more of them could use the skill of not dying. Then his heart hurt, his chest bled out severe, acrimonious urges (to run, to flee, to get away from joking about death when his father had just taken his last breath). But he didn’t let them know, didn’t let them see, pretended the effect was merely nothing, happenstance, so the cruelties and enigmas didn’t play out across his face, didn’t render him into anything but the hospitable, young General, trying desperately not to fail. The boy’s head tilted, lips curling in a content, gratified exposition, a charming turn, a careful study, another brief examination towards the newcomer garbed in black and white. When Beloved offered naught else but more of her manic giggles (and what were those supposed to mean - in context, in contrast, in phrases and ruminations?), he obliged the stranger, courting tenacity and ambition, yearning for the masses to join him on hunts, on patrols, on strolls towards devastation and recoil. We could be strong again might’ve been a spiraling noose on his tongue, imagining their frozen world heralded by a bounty of mighty, stalwart cretins, ready to defend its glacial walls, its wondrous, snow-capped towers, and show that his father’s legacy could live on (he could be something) through endurance, through fortitude, through leagues of strangers becoming a force to be reckoned with. He’d lead them there, consecrate, bless, anoint them with the savage arts, the nefarious motions, and they could show the world exactly what the Basin was made of (blistering, scathing machinations and condemnable revelations; all in due course, all in due time). “We’d be happy to have another soldier amongst us.” His grin twisted into something revenant, holy, pure, virtuous, gallant, defiant to the mercurial whims thundering over his soul: torn and twisted and polished into too many different roles and pretenses. “Once you get the lay of the land, we can spar, if you’d like.” Then she could learn more than just how not to take one's last breath, and they could succeed (they could triumph).
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
@Weaver @Beloved
