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12-30-2015, 07:25 AM
Erebos
Erebos wanted to laugh. He wanted to chuckle and guffaw, snicker and smirk as the girl flinched, as Ode jumped, as Orsino’s mind and his swarmed with the endless possibilities of trickery and deceit. I can take care of myself, and nothing will happen were like misshaped clamors on the bloody shoal; too inept, too silly, for the strife and debauchery they’d all eventually endure. She would have her innocence now – but it’d be breached, taken, stolen, she’d get to watch her friends die on a battlefield, she’d listen to the sad, strangled stories of a different time, a different place, and she’d hoist companions on a pedestal to merely watch them topple, lifeless and gone. It was an eternal revolution: days of juvenile bliss toiled and muddled and mired with actions of elders and Gods – war, famine, abhorrence and obliteration – and babes were always thrust into oblivion and damnation before they were ready. He acted on otherworldly caprice and mercurial weavings, flicking an ear towards the abrupt, dissonant wail, listening to Orsino ripple and chime with an eerie sibilance, pleased with himself, eager for more, more, more. The boy bit back the rich desire to roar and howl with ebullience, with assurance of trickery and disaster, but he was too much like his own fox now, immersed and embedded in the machination, wile, and artifice, altering his features into a composed length, staring off into the crimson abyss as Oblivion wove his tale. A notion of pride even found itself wound around his sinew and flesh, heart and soul, as Ode took up the chicanery and hoax with equal aplomb. It was almost like being with Aithniel and Rikyn again, striking out towards the Dragon’s Throat with false names and adventures dabbled across their tongues (the swell of memories were beautiful and bitter, rancorous and refined). The boy sent the smallest of looks towards his cousin; satisfied with the other’s endeavors, the camaraderie between demons and terror. Even Ode’s story was hilarious and intriguing. The infidel yearned to know where he’d come up with the tale on such a spur of the moment, where he drowned his ideals, where he learned of these myths and legends – but instead of asking, of bending into curiosity, he continued the subterfuge, glancing from where the screech had erupted. His face took on a bit more intrigue, a crinkling of his brow, furrowed either from worry or inquisition, nares widening in hopes of catching the scent of the infamous monster. Vocals became low and quiet, audible only to those gathered in their seine, purposefully maneuvering closer to the bushes. “I heard they feast on the young,” and here he glanced at Erthe and her attempt to dissuade the moment with rocks and pebbles and old bones from the last god. He stifled another smile, another snicker, another grin, shaking his head fiercely as if she were far too slow for his tastes. “No – their meat is always fresh."
Then Orsino, quick, swift, rapid, horrible Orsino, let out another agonizing screech – predacious, carnivorous, voracious, and Erebos took himself in on the act, backing away from the bushes as if afraid of what lurked within its hold. Drunk on illusions, on hallucinations, on wicked, abominable delusions, the sable kitsune moored amongst the red plumes and the violent wiles, conjured a menacing, ferocious chord, filled it with images, with brambles, with thorns, of a form stalking the shadows, of a feral, giant, cat-like creature inching closer and closer to the pale form of Erthe. Only framed by contours, silhouettes, and profiles, with no real distinction, it appeared to be stalking, drifting and haunting and poignant, and Erebos whispered through the dream, through the fantasy, through the nightmare, “There it is,” allowing his voice to drop an octave, for his limbs to shudder a minute amount.
But lord, how he still wanted to laugh.
I'LL SHOW YOU HOW GOD | FALLS ASLEEP ON THE JOB
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Image Credits
