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11-15-2015, 07:51 AM
They walked, three nefarious little objects absorbed by the sun and stars, by the sinister pathways outlining their frames, by the legions of legends scored and incensed amidst their blood – all entirely unaware and ignorant of what the past or future held. Erebos could dream, could aspire, could carve ambitions, but as to what would manifest past the surge of his revenge, the outlet of his passions, the threads of his hate, of his malice, of his menace, remained to be seen. So instead of sculpting the reasons or parallels of his sinister concoctions, he retained the pleasant tidings of his charismatic, conspiring self: ebullient, defiant, and jovial. A smirk, a smile, peeked past the folds of his lips and the pace of his steps, limbs and strides sorted out pretenses, contemplated wiles, leaning closer to the older boy, perfecting youthful intrigue and distortion. Orsino basked in the glow of vile, wild, untamed spirits, bouncing beside forelegs and pillars, another misshapen beast of black and gold. A trio of imperfection and the unknown, searching, surging, for nothing in particular – and perhaps, that was the most dangerous thing of all – to warrant the triad to wander in midst of holy beings and serene outcomes. But the boy yielded to the other’s query, posturing in the midst of the ruins, the arts, the sages, and the shrines, flicking an ear, polishing an act, as if he hadn’t spent hours here just days ago, had not yet finished dusting the ash off his knees. “I have. It’s an intriguing place.” He’d spent several occasions in the wreckage, in the havoc, pleading and begging and wondering. Once he’d been naught more than a small, simple child, running after demons and guarding other babes, and just before, the Sun God had bestowed him with immeasurable wisdom, guidance, and power. It rippled through him now, a burning, churning piece of strength, diligence, and tenacity. A toxic, beautiful rapture, reverence of the forsaken, of Arwen and her last, dying breaths, of his grandsire’s simmering, thorns and knots, a token, a symbol, a representation that somehow, someway, he could simmer and seethe and turn a Colossus into wayward ash and dust. Yet, he didn’t tell Ode. He kept it a secret, a locked away corridor, because he wasn’t sure if the other beast craved the sanction of gods, of goddesses, or if, a tiny, minute possibility, he too might join him on his journey, on his crusade of vengeance and blood. Instead, his inquisitive, mischievous gaze sought out the other’s red, crimson stare, and his mouth formed an impish grin. “Have you met any of the Gods before?” OOC;; --- TAG;; @[ ] "talk talk talk" |
- table by Niki -
