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06-04-2015, 01:29 AM
TO THE RHYTHM OF THE WARDRUMS
We, he says, and Oblivion smirks, his lips twisted with a shadowed mirth reserved for moments of true humor. The boy treats him more like a partner than a god, and he hasn't decided yet if that's preferred or not. It doesn't matter though, because either way the Demon King needs to teach the boy how to reap and sow the earth for his own gains. He needs to learn how to plant chaos and foster mayhem, how to revel in misery and wallow in despair. Once, Oblivion's name was feared, and his tales, both real or imagined, made up nightmares. That, was godhood. The infamy of a name and the resonance of deeds, that was an immortality that anyone great could achieve.
Oblivion would lift this boy there, filling in the holes his mother had left behind or neglected.
"What does any god need, but worshipers? Faith is empty without prayers, and gods are week without believers. Give them something to believe in, and they will come and lift you onto your starlit throne." Oblivion had made promises, and abided by them as best he was capable. He and his army of the damned had accomplished much, though sustained little in the end, the undoing of him.
"Trust in few, but keep many. Follow the blood to your chair."
"Belial, your father, wanders beyond with a crown of horns and red in his fur. Deimos the Reaper leads you already. Erebos, his son, you've met alongside a friend which sews. Confutatis the World Eater speaks with poison and wears my mask. Nymeria, her daughter, takes after her. Volterra, her son, you met while he trained in a storm, his dragon an envy of yours." Oblivion grinned with his knowledge. "As your muscles are held with cords, so your fate is tied by your blood. Follow it and learn from the parts of yourself that walk."
"Now go, and rise.
