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03-19-2017, 07:13 AM
The heavy, heady silence tied him up in knots, strangled him, choked him, grated against his nerves, his senses, until he simply pulled away from the silver Disciple’s presence, shifting his skull to pierce the slate in front of him, to whittle down the tomb bearing the fallen King of the North. When none of the marble or stone flickered off, splintered, fractured, he was forced to listen to the renewed words of the stranger, paying no mind to Orsino’s ferocious, arched brow, or Enyo’s abundant curiosity (inching just a little closer to the other stag, pondering over his appearance, his strength, his fortitude), the subtle croon of morning, and then the gleam of the stranger’s true purpose - I didn’t know him.
If Erebos was to be blunt and honest, very few had actually known the Reaper. Deimos had been a multitude of things – flawed, acerbic, withdrawn, nonchalant, a living, wandering blade, meant to smother, meant to suffocate, meant to destroy the twisted legions in front of him. He’d been carnage and annihilation in breath, in blood, in muscle and sinew, he’d been bold and resolute, he’d been forbidding and menacing, but lord, he’d always been kind and compassionate, a column of eroding impassivity. The world had chosen to mock him for his lack of conversation, for his inability to carry on fragments of nonsense, but he’d been more, so much more, than the ignorant fools who could never see past the inscrutable gaze. The boy had only been born after his sire had been made sovereign, had fixed that tilting crown across his skull, but the beast had tried to be good to his comrades, to his allies, forced into diplomacy, into politics, instead of the fire, the fury, and the Tartarean guile he’d always held. He’d bled for them, stole for them, reaped for them, smiled when they weren’t looking, took to the shadows, stained carnivore resplendence across the pages of history – Huyana had always given him ample reverence, love, and comprehension through her stories, her tales, of the deadly, lethal monarch. Erebos had believed every one of them, had seen the forsaken man, had cherished and beloved him for each moment of each day, had wanted to be just like him (you will be better, Deimos had said, their last, spoken words to each other, and the prince knew he couldn’t be). So it was odd, peculiar, to the boy to think that one day no one would know of his exploits, of his deeds, of his conducts, that the Reaper would fall to the leagues of the past with not so much as a glance – one of the cretins, one of the fiends, who’d helped to shape this obstinate, tenacious land.
A part of him wanted to keep the knowledge for himself – mercenary and grasping, greedy and conniving, avaricious for the few glowing embers his sire had left behind – and he yearned for him to be back, to be living, to be there so he wouldn’t have to tell this stranger anything and everything. Erebos choked back a disgraceful, bestial reply, swallowing down the acerbic response because he understood curiosity and inquiry, he’d known what it was like to face the damned world and wonder about it – but the inquiry, the nuance, still scorched his flesh. He rose then, shook off the bits of dust and granule, still wishing to kneel, to pray, to offer reverence to a renounced rapier; steady, valorous stare plucking away the animosity, the anger, the rawness away from his eyes, focusing them back upon Cassius, the scholar. Had the argent beast pressed too firmly, had he been rapacious and acquisitive, daring, voracious, or self-indulgent, Erebos would have hissed, growled, and threatened him away, leaving his soul to rot in further sorrow, in more grief, tied together and gnarled by anguish. The softness of the statements curled and coiled into his entity, however, calmed the seams of sin and ferocity, and the youth could breathe into reality, into flames, without emblazoning both of them. The General didn’t possess the memory of Deimos then, extending it outwards, into the air, into the soil, for if the Reaper were ever forgotten, lost to time, to space, to seasons and cycles, the scion wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. Acceptance and compliance shifted, regarded in the coolness of his muscles, in the tangible claws of his melancholy. “What do you want to know?”
If Erebos was to be blunt and honest, very few had actually known the Reaper. Deimos had been a multitude of things – flawed, acerbic, withdrawn, nonchalant, a living, wandering blade, meant to smother, meant to suffocate, meant to destroy the twisted legions in front of him. He’d been carnage and annihilation in breath, in blood, in muscle and sinew, he’d been bold and resolute, he’d been forbidding and menacing, but lord, he’d always been kind and compassionate, a column of eroding impassivity. The world had chosen to mock him for his lack of conversation, for his inability to carry on fragments of nonsense, but he’d been more, so much more, than the ignorant fools who could never see past the inscrutable gaze. The boy had only been born after his sire had been made sovereign, had fixed that tilting crown across his skull, but the beast had tried to be good to his comrades, to his allies, forced into diplomacy, into politics, instead of the fire, the fury, and the Tartarean guile he’d always held. He’d bled for them, stole for them, reaped for them, smiled when they weren’t looking, took to the shadows, stained carnivore resplendence across the pages of history – Huyana had always given him ample reverence, love, and comprehension through her stories, her tales, of the deadly, lethal monarch. Erebos had believed every one of them, had seen the forsaken man, had cherished and beloved him for each moment of each day, had wanted to be just like him (you will be better, Deimos had said, their last, spoken words to each other, and the prince knew he couldn’t be). So it was odd, peculiar, to the boy to think that one day no one would know of his exploits, of his deeds, of his conducts, that the Reaper would fall to the leagues of the past with not so much as a glance – one of the cretins, one of the fiends, who’d helped to shape this obstinate, tenacious land.
A part of him wanted to keep the knowledge for himself – mercenary and grasping, greedy and conniving, avaricious for the few glowing embers his sire had left behind – and he yearned for him to be back, to be living, to be there so he wouldn’t have to tell this stranger anything and everything. Erebos choked back a disgraceful, bestial reply, swallowing down the acerbic response because he understood curiosity and inquiry, he’d known what it was like to face the damned world and wonder about it – but the inquiry, the nuance, still scorched his flesh. He rose then, shook off the bits of dust and granule, still wishing to kneel, to pray, to offer reverence to a renounced rapier; steady, valorous stare plucking away the animosity, the anger, the rawness away from his eyes, focusing them back upon Cassius, the scholar. Had the argent beast pressed too firmly, had he been rapacious and acquisitive, daring, voracious, or self-indulgent, Erebos would have hissed, growled, and threatened him away, leaving his soul to rot in further sorrow, in more grief, tied together and gnarled by anguish. The softness of the statements curled and coiled into his entity, however, calmed the seams of sin and ferocity, and the youth could breathe into reality, into flames, without emblazoning both of them. The General didn’t possess the memory of Deimos then, extending it outwards, into the air, into the soil, for if the Reaper were ever forgotten, lost to time, to space, to seasons and cycles, the scion wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. Acceptance and compliance shifted, regarded in the coolness of his muscles, in the tangible claws of his melancholy. “What do you want to know?”
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
@Cassius
