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04-09-2016, 05:47 PM
The rain was sublime, coasting and ghosting and unwinding over his form as he brewed an infernal tempest against the rocks and the bank. The fiend lowered his skull as he careened along corners and apertures, rose to his hind limbs and pinpointed his sword into an invisible enemy. Thereafter he scalded and brewed in vicious displays, one right after the other, hooves flailing and daggers tracing, brutality varnished and garnished in slender, intricate movements and motions; a warrior retracing his steps, his zeal, his strength for the oncoming storm, the foretold wars, the battles of good and evil. He neither floated away nor fought the current, becoming the embodiment of torn, river depths, an unraveling minstrel and minister of fortitude, of devilish scrapes and scopes, of Machiavellian, Mephistophelean tendencies, laughing and chuckling while Orsino sneered; sculpting and chiseling the finery of his precision until he could feel it in his marrow, in his bones. He forgot regrets and forged power, prowess, puissance, precise, delicate ministrations of calculated divinations, a miniature warlord rising to knighthood beneath showers and abyss. He might have spent the entire day perusing and gliding on the channels, surging and surfing, unwinding and unraveling (for it beat back rancor, bitterness, predilections of past failures; today was about conquering and cherishing, believing and granting), had another not spoken up over the cascading droplets.
The boy stopped immediately, a beast with no sea, an infidel with no lair. He narrowed his gaze and peered through the spring haze, too lost to have seen anything or anyone, roaming closer and closer until he was nearly pressed against the embankment (Orsino balancing on a rock, steady and serpentine), clutching the form of an unknown mare between the rain and the meadow. She wasn’t familiar to him at all (another one of those nameless figures); he would have recognized her by hues and colors alone. Even while the deluge surfaced and reigned, the prince could see the bright fixtures of lavender and icy blue peering from her brow and tapestry, colliding neatly with ivory and Stygian properties, as if her body had long since given up on choosing the right color and simply decided on all of them at once. But she’d been bright, cheerful, in her salutations, and he had no reason not to be – no need for masks, for pretenses, for Cheshire upheavals and cretin exploits. His smile wove easily along his face, charming, charismatic, endearing in its boyish indulgence, like he wasn’t a monster buried beneath allure and appeal. “Hello!” Impish, he glided a little closer, still fully immersed on the surface of the river, hardly maneuvering along its rapid, undulating movement. “It’s not a trick at all!” Erebos winked, indulgent and silly, still a youth, still a challenging, audacious blackguard, beating a fine crescendo amidst the downpour. His voice, ebullient and wild, savage and untamed, born from death and damnation and the sweet, nourishing bits of rain, sprung in its hedonistic passion, a marvel, a spectacle, of magnetism. “It’s magic!”
The boy stopped immediately, a beast with no sea, an infidel with no lair. He narrowed his gaze and peered through the spring haze, too lost to have seen anything or anyone, roaming closer and closer until he was nearly pressed against the embankment (Orsino balancing on a rock, steady and serpentine), clutching the form of an unknown mare between the rain and the meadow. She wasn’t familiar to him at all (another one of those nameless figures); he would have recognized her by hues and colors alone. Even while the deluge surfaced and reigned, the prince could see the bright fixtures of lavender and icy blue peering from her brow and tapestry, colliding neatly with ivory and Stygian properties, as if her body had long since given up on choosing the right color and simply decided on all of them at once. But she’d been bright, cheerful, in her salutations, and he had no reason not to be – no need for masks, for pretenses, for Cheshire upheavals and cretin exploits. His smile wove easily along his face, charming, charismatic, endearing in its boyish indulgence, like he wasn’t a monster buried beneath allure and appeal. “Hello!” Impish, he glided a little closer, still fully immersed on the surface of the river, hardly maneuvering along its rapid, undulating movement. “It’s not a trick at all!” Erebos winked, indulgent and silly, still a youth, still a challenging, audacious blackguard, beating a fine crescendo amidst the downpour. His voice, ebullient and wild, savage and untamed, born from death and damnation and the sweet, nourishing bits of rain, sprung in its hedonistic passion, a marvel, a spectacle, of magnetism. “It’s magic!”
Erebos
clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in
@Fiachra
