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He remembered the slaying of beasts: the feral disregard, the callous sway, the indulgent, chaotic fray as they all unleashed one ferocious tirade after another. It had been wild, ambitious, and lethal, a smoking gun of treachery and dissolution, and he’d loved nearly every moment of it – shirking deities that were not his own, carving and sculpting and whittling his way across seams of marrow, blood, and bone. He’d dined with others in the furthest reaches of hell, searching and scouring for purpose and becoming lost in the yearning, in the toil, in the burning echoes of damnation and serenity; a fine discordance lacquered in enmity, acrimony, and heartlessness. He never thought to care about the other Gods and the lands they’d lost, he never bothered to wonder over why they rose against the surges of Time, Darkness, Earth, or the Sun, never questioned when and where, never asked how, simply surged amongst the din, the throng, and craved bloodshed. He hadn’t been as successful as the newcomer boasted, but he’d been amongst the brutality, the barbarity, swinging away, igniting, inciting, rejoicing when he caused damage, laughing, mocking, and delving deeper, deeper, deeper into the whims of the violent, the satanic, the savage. It didn’t even occur to him to feel inadequate next to the titan and his nefarious exploits; because he knew one day he’d hold power too, wreak havoc, pluck and unravel his enemy’s heartless ploys, ensure vengeance was met with equal measure.
So while Erebos listened to the older, broader, mercenary lad, reality struck a chord in them possibly being kindred spirits. The pride carried in the blackguard’s voice, the notion, the sentiments, the images of holy beings falling below his blows, his daggers, his motions, was enough to spark, incense, and coil schemes in the blue scion’s skull – so much so that the impish texture of his grin took on a more amiable quality. His regal cranium tilted, intrigued and interested, as Orsino rumbled and grumbled at his feet, watching the dragon feast as more introductions were extended, as more spells and invocations worked their way through the bellowing surf and the recoiling grandeur. This beast, with his capable arms, with his soulless munitions, with his eager, keen interest in crusades, could be one more on his side when the world crumbled, when requital beckoned, when his opportunity finally arose. “Well enough,” the boy added, still grinning, having no need to curl long-winded tales; the lies would catch and snag. Instead of delving into pretenses or deceptions, the prince followed a carefully-tread path, setting out pieces of bait for his favored snare. “I was much more satisfied in spilling the blood of my enemy,” and then he smiled again, wide and full, a cat eating a canary, then gesturing out towards the billowing waves and the red dragon floating above the sea. He watched for the longest of moments, a witness to the hunting, avaricious reptile, and wanted to laugh because they were all brutal and violent at some point, for some reason, for some time.
He didn’t fight the notion – he reveled in it.
“A pleasure, Volterra. This is Orsino,” he gestured to the bundle of bristling sable at his feet, ignoring the dirty looks and the grumpy snarls, paying more heed to the ebony stag, stoking and refining his efforts. “Are you from around here?” Any other time, he may have taken a more designated interest in the companion (because he’d once been fascinated with the concept of dragons, all wrath and fire, all wings and terror, but then he’d seen one with him and the opulence had faded), but his eyes remained ever fixated on the Stygian beast, conjuring plans and mayhem behind the piercing slate of his stare.
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[P] Blaze rage red is the color of youth
