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09-19-2015, 12:43 PM
Even as the sounds of another approached, the boy was Ignatius, all fine lines and strong limbs, not tucked into shadow and death and rain, but fire, granules of old coals and flashing embers, bestowing a simpler smile, a more fitting plunge into the legends of his grandfather – lying, pretending, honing a craft. He would’ve liked to ask about Cera’s companion again, filter any and all queries of how their bonds worked because his was so newfound and pristine, Orsino with the golden eyes and the manic’s grin flickering and deceitful; but only Erebos would have conjured such questions. Ignatius would’ve known anything and everything without trying, would’ve been informed and strong and determined despite any chance of ignorance, so he merely listened, pricking his ears towards Cera’s tones, towards the sway, towards the motives and ambitions of one tucked and nestled between the folds and clamors of Gods. Much like a disciple, he attempted to absorb the meanings behind the phrases, the notions of quests (he’d been given one too; so did that mean they much the same, and he was one step closer to becoming something or someone?), the gestures and pinnacles towards light. Erebos was made from darkness and water, and struggled fathoming the essence of virtue and devotion to anything but his own ambitions. Did Cera serve his deity? Or was there something more, something less, than what the lad understood? What direction or advice did he crave? Were the holy ones always eager to descend, ready to conduct instruction upon the mortals? Or was this mere preparation, a means to an end, purely purpose-driven poetics, gazing towards flowing lava and decrepit shrines, searching for comprehension and understanding when maybe there wasn’t any to be found? His gaze flicked, traced, over the foundations of rubble and ruin, over the veins that drove so many of them to harbor and harpoon these suggestions, these guidelines, and he wondered how many simply ignored them and lived their own lives, devoid of those granted gifts. He pondered over what happened to them, if they remained chiseled and firm in this life or the next, bleeding over the ramparts because they failed, because they triumphed. So he offered, moments later, slinking his head back towards the winged creature’s, drawing back over memories and poignancy, granting a warm gesture; maybe more Erebos, maybe less his grandsire. He couldn’t be certain. The matching grin, however, was all his. “I can help, if you’d like?” Then the other made their appearance, and the curious sheen of his stare had to be sliced back to a calm, regal indifference, even as he studied the unknown mare and her patchwork sheen of black and webbing, reminding him of spiders and their coveted threads. Was she a weaver, made in molds of Arachne? Were her eyes red to give warning, to give heed and credence towards her venomous gestures? But naught, even as she advanced, screamed toxins to him – no danger, no treachery, no overt potency – so he delved back into pretenses, back into masquerades, fitting his lies along his frame over and over again. “Ignatius,” he claimed with an easy smile and winsome demeanor, “and my companion, Stone.” To which he could almost feel his grandmother rolling over his temples, and Orsino hissing in scorn and distaste. OOC;; --- TAG;; @[ ] "talk talk talk" |
- table by Niki -
@Cera
