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Preludes to the future: lithe sparks and midnight oils, restless, growing barbs and bulbs, blossoms and thorns, scattered amongst the plains, the skies, the stars. Defiant and deviant, a rebel in the making marched over the fine stone and cracked rubble, investigated and scorched the foundations of the earth, hummed the drumming crescendo of foretold goblins and subversive pariahs. Maybe one day he’d find the sway of power, hold and clench it within his grasp, make lords grimace and rumble, ensue panic and hysteria, carve malicious lies into emboldened pursuits. Perhaps in the coming years he’d stand upon pillars, upon thrones, knock them down, sculpt his name into their tumbled sides, into their lonesome valleys, laugh, gleam, cackle. The raptures and reveries of christened expectations were for the taking, and he’d bend and break to receive the hallowed proportions of his destiny – twist fate, contort providence, distort kismet, if fortune didn’t favor the bold. But wouldn’t they all be great, this mass of little beasts, little angels, little heathens, brought up amongst the scattered ice and built rime, homespun cavaliers and mercenaries, tranquil and ignorant, awaiting their turn, their time, to write history? Wouldn’t she, the mystical golden child, glimmer and gleam? Wouldn’t Aithniel glide and chime, scorch and sear? Wouldn’t Rikyn deceive and rattle? Wouldn’t Adelric collect wisdom, nurture sagacity, point them towards a kingdom in need of toppling? There was too much promise, too much prowess, to be denied in their feral, whimsical existences; and as they shuffled through the kaleidoscope temple, he smoldered, pretended, cast the lightest shell and spell of what he could be. The rogue smirk, the feisty, unruly strides, stood steadfast and corporeal across his cerulean hide, only one hark casting its wayward sway towards Asch’s words, her beliefs, her insight into the strange shrine and its cathedral bits, altars of every color, every faction (what would happen if it broke, shattered, slivered and splintered into wild hues and rainbow delusions?).
He was a holder of stories, enjoyed lavished tales of pirates, of thieves, of demons – he could visualize the slithering wraiths, the domineering Gods casting them away, embellishing the void with shades, tints, pigments until all were blinded by the sacramental lights. He could see the spilled blood, the hallowed droplets conforming to marble, stained and tainted, glass conforming to a deity’s will, and couldn’t decide which myth he enjoyed the most. Both versions were imaginative, creative, raw possibilities, and he laughed at them, amused, exhilarated, raising his head to stare straight at the bright looking glass above –
Or maybe, it is mine. I am queen and you must be banished from my beautiful structure. The young prince’s cranium swiveled back towards Asch, captured, enticed, and enthralled into battle: the seditious spring, the revolutionary toils, coiled and curled in his membrane, obstinate and resistant, a tiny beast lined with fire. Tempted and goaded into the fight, the haughty edges of her crown, the flailing of her forelegs, courted him into further measures: he swerved, he mocked, he roused. “Never!” He dodged to the left, quick, swift, kicking out with his hind, intending to cease any close movements on her part. He wanted to circle around, make it to another stone pedestal, another higher precipice, declare the rock and rubble for himself, the formidable palace sanctioned by Gods. The opportunity wasn’t presented, his gaze hastened for steps or shoal, but all he found were flat surfaces, fallen crevasses, molten cracks. Spinning back towards her frame, he puffed out his chest, anointed dares and incitements in a mockingly deep voice, poignantly drifting and slamming into the archaic walls. “I, Blackguard Erebos, challenge the Lady Asch for her empire!” He paused, maneuvered ever closer, smirk hastened into the depths of his debonair lips, daredevil colt cloaked in blue. “Do you accept?”
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