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06-04-2015, 12:25 AM
TO THE RHYTHM OF THE WARDRUMS
God.
The word shudders through him like thunder in a dry storm, rolling through every section of his body and filling up his being. His dick twitches in its sheath, aroused by the power of that single, short, word. In response he grins, and it's like death is laughing, because the skull he wears is always smiling in its quiet, morbid way, but when he offers up his own lip-peeled wolf-grin, all teeth and danger, well then it's down right terrifying.
"Yes," he returns, all velvet and silver, unaffected by the ease with which he accepts the title proffered for him.
Today (is it still a day?) is not about OBLIVION though, it's about the boy that stands before him, all knees and dried blood, nothing strong or fresh or kingly about him other than the crowns jutting out of his skull like some divine place holder for great-hood. The Demon King observes him for a moment, green eyes rolling in the hooded dark of his sockets, beneath the hollowed eyes of the skull- his crown.
He breathes out, and it seemed dark and heavy, like exhaust fumes wafting free. "You prayed to me, Öde. You have been heard now and delivered in your time of need." Oblivion regards his son, seeing a member of his army, one of the last. "Though you will not remain here forever. Not yet, not for a long time." There's some jealousy which colors the otherwise confident slid of the demon's voice. A beast which craves to escape the mortality of his existence cannot help but hunger for the promise of a longer life; Oblivion could have been a true god, given time.
This is why the boy is so important though. In him, his name is carried on as much as his blood.
