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06-18-2015, 08:09 AM
So began an expression, a sharing, of misfortunes. The scion had never truly committed an air of grievances, of his complaints against the earth – he understood he was one of the affluent, the fortunate, because he was a prince and given rites of lessons, scholarly pursuits, gifts from the Gods when they decided not to ignore him entirely – but the sensation was like a catalyst, allowing and bestowing him the privilege of others’ wounds and lacerations. As he absorbed the information the elder colt gave him (and realizing perhaps he wasn’t as bad off as the rest of the realm), the blue lad realized the world could be outrageously cruel. He’d witnessed it first hand, saw lifeless bodies chiseled into finite dust, into mere clues and discoveries and mysteries for others to solve, became a late witness to Arwen’s disastrous death – and stood before another survivor. How did they get on in life, when everything seemed so incredibly difficult? Was it by choice, by obligation, by sheer, unfettered will? He was a determined blight, a resolved, miniature cretin, forging and bludgeoning his way along the tempests of time, stumbling, faltering, then gaining ground after missteps. What had this one done to continue smoldering, existing, planting roots and nestling plans? For Erebos had not lost his mother, had not lost his father, had not lost his sister. He couldn’t imagine his family dissipating into the void, becoming haunting specters of his past. They were everywhere. They were nurturing. They were loving, protective, and guarding. He loved and cherished their every being: just as he’d done with his friends, just as he’d do with Orsino. The harsh reality that they’d one day be gone hadn’t settled upon his membrane, and it stirred him into further, pensive silence, drew his eyes to the ground, to a rise of vexation in the kitsune’s throat. He didn’t know what to say or how to feel, other than a choking, clotting bitterness sticking to his vocals, to his mind (because would he take an oath of vengeance again, if they were ever marred, wounded, or taken, or simply sink into despair?), and it ended with a continued measuring of stories, of tragedies. “One of them was murdered.” Beautiful, golden Arwen, with gilded locks of spirit, taken by her boldness, sullied by her audacity; and he’d been too late to do anything but sizzle and spark in rage. “I’m sorry for your losses too.” But then the other hinted towards movement, and he raised his gaze carefully, speculating, watching, always scrutinizing and examining, as if faults would be presented to him, as though weaknesses would be apparent to his youthful mind and he could find a place to lacerate anyone and everyone fully – but the stag of embers merely seemed preoccupied, stretching across the chilling warren, and offering, bestowing, extending a chance for guidance and support. Baffled, Erebos’ stare was rendered into rounded proportions, before gathering his wits back into the fold, pondering how to answer the other. Should he tell them their names? Should he disclose their triumphs, their legacies, their revelries? He’d already gone so far as to say they were vanished – would it make it all the more real when he spoke their names? The speculation hit him with a chilling, glacial vigor that even the mountains couldn’t place, and he felt a terrible, gnawing ache along his barrel, across his chest. But, maybe the other one could help. Maybe he’d heard of them in his travels. Maybe he knew where they’d all gone, and Erebos could follow their footsteps, track their whereabouts, and bring them back to where they all belonged (with him, with the Basin, with glory at their backs and visions in their eyes). A small emblem of hope stuck to his heart and gathered, settled there, as Orsino’s poignant, gilded glare landed upon the grey stallion, and the scion chiseled his friends’ callings one by one (and if he were a siren, would they be compelled to join him in the midst, by just trumpeting their titles?). “I don’t know where they’ve gone – but maybe you’ve heard of them? A spotted colt named Adelric, a Pegasus filly named Aithniel…” He trailed off, conviction stuttering, before pressing on, because the last one hadn’t been seen in over a year, on a mission with his dam. “And a bay colt called Rikyn?” OOC;; TAG;; @[Cathun] |
- table by Niki -
