.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
07-14-2016, 05:54 PM
There was an unearthly, eerie amount of confidence pervading from the other colt; too self-assured, too resilient, too composed for someone of his age. Erebos had likely been the same, but had been molded and taken apart several times along the way, kindled and incensed, reanimated and sketched, taking his experiences, his adventures, his hate, his compassion, and tempering it to something similar to what he was now. He’d stumbled and fumbled on many tasks, trials, and tribulations, and he had to wonder what on earth this child had done to possess the assertiveness, the audacity, or the nerve. “That’s true,” the prince responded to the boy’s first statement – because he’d uttered a belief that scorched over his own malicious, gallant heart. The scion believed in himself, no matter how many times he’d fallen, because of determination, because of perseverance, because of the enduring creed snaking through his core: he could do anything he wanted, as long as he tried, as long as he persisted. One day he’d slay the dragons, the ghosts, the goliaths, and giants wreaking havoc over his brethren, kin, and friends. One day he’d conquer the world alongside his chosen allies. One day he’d snatch the stars instead of chase them. One day he’d succeed where others could not. One day he’d cease craving, because he suddenly had it all, and nothing, no one, could stand in his way. It’d be beautiful, barbaric, and savage, and he couldn’t wait for those fatal, feral moments when everything fell so neatly into place, carefully orchestrated, executed, and ordained. “What would you like to do?” he postured in curiosity, for everyone had goals, dreams, and aspirations.
But then the little skull child persisted a little too far, dragging a knife along edges and margins, lingering near fanning flames: If I wanted, I could blow your mind. The warrior’s gaze widened, pretenses flickering and forming, a mask positioning carefully over all the things he wished he could say and do; strike and slap, challenge and distort, maim, rip, and tear, devour and consume until the boy couldn’t even remember his own name. His voice sprung and leaped into varying venues, gliding on sarcasm and wit, plunging into regions of mockery and iniquity. I’d like to see you try, he wanted to say, I doubt it, he wished to utter, I dare you, he yearned to cackle, but none of them coiled along his tongue. Perhaps the boy was right, and he was capable of festering Erebos’ membrane to smithereens, so nothing would be left but a shell, but a vessel, of a blue colt once destined for something great and grand. He’d learned not to underestimate others – like lands, like monsters, like gods (because even they could perish). He ultimately settled for a sly sort of smirk, resting on the eaves of his mouth and lips, coiling upwards to chisel their way into nefarious whims or delightful, mercurial persistence. “Can you? How interesting.” The tones weren’t sharp, weren’t menacing, weren’t vehement, but cool and composed, head tilted to study the waxwork abilities of the lad.
The inevitable flared immediately thereafter, for it was his turn to showcase abilities and talents, what lay in his blood, what quivered in his heart, what lay laced and ruined and diabolical, festering through his marrow – a piece of darkness, a brewing of infernal infernos.
But rather than tell, rather than lie, rather than intertwine every talent he possessed, the prince wanted to show.
“What more can I do…” The beast murmured outloud, gazing towards the horizon as if deep in thought, hard-pressed to find anything noteworthy, pulling threads of deception and deceit together; a specious veil, a harpooning subterfuge. His gaze shifted to the sable kitsune basking on a rock, another Lilliputian, eldritch abomination, waiting for his opportunity to snatch and extort. They connected in silent observations and vile scrutiny, smirking, taunting, and snickering at the others’ wiles and concoctions amidst the unholy disquiet. At once, Orsino gathered his wits, his uncanny, cunning abilities, and along the shoreline rose an image: cloudy and foggy at first, like a curtain of mist rising from mountains, lakes, and valleys, but as it began to take shape, the embodiment, the figure, became a ghostly essence of the chosen beast. A Stygian form was cast onto the sand, conforming to the dirt, the dunes, the loam, with an arrogant satisfaction plastered across his face, his red eyes, his ivory mask, and his broad, distinct shoulders. Erebos remembered him as Volterra, the son of Confutatis, assured and resilient, bold and intrepid, waiting for his moment to take on the world. Perhaps that’s where the child found all his defiance and gall; Volterra simply spread it through his blood, through his ichor, incapable of containing it. The prince’s stare slid immediately back to the youth, maw pointing towards the mirage haunting the beach. “Is this your father?”
But then the little skull child persisted a little too far, dragging a knife along edges and margins, lingering near fanning flames: If I wanted, I could blow your mind. The warrior’s gaze widened, pretenses flickering and forming, a mask positioning carefully over all the things he wished he could say and do; strike and slap, challenge and distort, maim, rip, and tear, devour and consume until the boy couldn’t even remember his own name. His voice sprung and leaped into varying venues, gliding on sarcasm and wit, plunging into regions of mockery and iniquity. I’d like to see you try, he wanted to say, I doubt it, he wished to utter, I dare you, he yearned to cackle, but none of them coiled along his tongue. Perhaps the boy was right, and he was capable of festering Erebos’ membrane to smithereens, so nothing would be left but a shell, but a vessel, of a blue colt once destined for something great and grand. He’d learned not to underestimate others – like lands, like monsters, like gods (because even they could perish). He ultimately settled for a sly sort of smirk, resting on the eaves of his mouth and lips, coiling upwards to chisel their way into nefarious whims or delightful, mercurial persistence. “Can you? How interesting.” The tones weren’t sharp, weren’t menacing, weren’t vehement, but cool and composed, head tilted to study the waxwork abilities of the lad.
The inevitable flared immediately thereafter, for it was his turn to showcase abilities and talents, what lay in his blood, what quivered in his heart, what lay laced and ruined and diabolical, festering through his marrow – a piece of darkness, a brewing of infernal infernos.
But rather than tell, rather than lie, rather than intertwine every talent he possessed, the prince wanted to show.
“What more can I do…” The beast murmured outloud, gazing towards the horizon as if deep in thought, hard-pressed to find anything noteworthy, pulling threads of deception and deceit together; a specious veil, a harpooning subterfuge. His gaze shifted to the sable kitsune basking on a rock, another Lilliputian, eldritch abomination, waiting for his opportunity to snatch and extort. They connected in silent observations and vile scrutiny, smirking, taunting, and snickering at the others’ wiles and concoctions amidst the unholy disquiet. At once, Orsino gathered his wits, his uncanny, cunning abilities, and along the shoreline rose an image: cloudy and foggy at first, like a curtain of mist rising from mountains, lakes, and valleys, but as it began to take shape, the embodiment, the figure, became a ghostly essence of the chosen beast. A Stygian form was cast onto the sand, conforming to the dirt, the dunes, the loam, with an arrogant satisfaction plastered across his face, his red eyes, his ivory mask, and his broad, distinct shoulders. Erebos remembered him as Volterra, the son of Confutatis, assured and resilient, bold and intrepid, waiting for his moment to take on the world. Perhaps that’s where the child found all his defiance and gall; Volterra simply spread it through his blood, through his ichor, incapable of containing it. The prince’s stare slid immediately back to the youth, maw pointing towards the mirage haunting the beach. “Is this your father?”
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
@Kid
