|
An overwhelming sense of victory reigned across his skull as his rapier hit its mark, as his sword met flesh, as it tore and gashed and lacerated and swept through hide. Though it was hardly a conquest or crusade, it was one notch towards vengeance, one plunge amidst decadence and regime and toppling towers with their massive power and acrimonious ties – it showed him, for the smallest of moments, that even those so wicked, so vile, so repugnant, could be touched, could be flayed, could be scalded and scorched.
It was a touch, a taste, a droplet of what the world had to offer; scintillating, cruel, and divine.
It uncovered disaster, ruin, and condemnation – the searing sport of kings and cretins, titans and goliaths, fallen seraphs and tiny demons, all brooding, all brewing, all calculating beyond knives, daggers, and hate – and his sights were simmering and menacing, locked between the nestled barbs and thorns. The prince was suddenly avaricious, ravenous, greedy and calculating, wanting anything and everything: from wreckage to opulence.
He savored it for the briefest of seconds, a surge of momentum, a blistering awareness of finite glory, and then incriminating eyes suddenly widened, shocked, surprised, that he’d managed to maul through the layers of loathing. Thereafter, he was suddenly at a loss of what to do – over the wails, along the screams, upon the ramparts and fortifications he’d chased and harbored and abhorred, and his forelegs shook, quivering, trembling, weakening?
Was he afraid? Was he frightened?
The sensations didn’t coil amongst his heart or his veins, and his stare fixated upon the other child throwing her gales, her tremors, her bellows, and ascertained she was the cause – in all her hate and sentiments, she too had fought and labored – he ducked off to the side, where Orsino twitched and hissed, struggling to gather the remnants of strength back into his legs (so he could fight, so he could conquer, so he could win for just a change, just a moment where no one he cherished fell apart in a broken, bloody mess, gone and gone and gone).
Then Mirabella, so unknown beyond the granules of ice forged between then, ties melded and molded from caverns and rooted lineage, shouted at him, used her enchantments to awaken some shimmering portal, to grant him escape from the wicked doldrums…
And if he did: would that make him a coward? A weakling?
Yet, if he stayed to fight the giant cretin, would that make him stupid?
“I’ll see you again,” he growled amidst the rolling plains of hate and ambition, seething, molten and incensed, aiming it straight for the painted monster and his bitter edges, then he shifted to Mirabella’s gift, and took it like a voracious predator, carved a “Thank you!” from the great swells of emotion and pride, followed its guiding force with Orsino in tow and legs shaking, stumbling, fumbling, desperate for another chance at treachery, at barbarity. From the savage twinges, they coiled and contorted, shoved out from the precious sanctum mere instances later, as if it were all a fast-paced dream and naught held them back but the ties of danger and the sanctity of moments:
Arriving near his father, another stag, the sea healer, and Enna, collapsed upon the ground.
He choked back a throng of vile scorn, derision, and disgust, but it floored him all the same (because one more had bit into the dust, another friend collided with the earth and there’d been nothing he could do and he was always a step behind, a moment too late). The art of disdain held him in its clutches, and the threads of his malice unfurled, uncoiled, ricocheted past their wares and towards the tiger goddess, intent on destruction, on persecution, on havoc, twisting and turning, aiming to corrupt her lungs, slow her breathing, choke the life out of her celestial soul.
[Team Earth God.
Snarls briefly at Abraham, but can’t continue fighting him in his weakened state. Takes Mirabella’s offered portal, and lands near Enna, Tiamat, Ciceron, and Deimos. Unleashes dark corruption magic towards Tiger Goddess, hoping to use it to choke her.]
| |
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
⇒
SWP :: Blunt Little Instruments (Part II)
