.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
11-26-2016, 07:41 PM
Erebos didn’t return to the Basin until some hours later, anger, fury, and enmity bit down into his enduring vessel after too many moments spent analyzing, threatening, and pursuing a monster with no name. Abhorrence still clung to him in edges, fringes, and cycles, slipping along his strides, embodying his core, keeping him warm by the flares of indignation as he strolled beneath rusted Sentinel gazes and towering ramparts. The prince’s features had fallen into their usual flare, a veneer of bright, buoyed exuberance, but the rest of his frame was tired, exhausted, mind fatigued by the quandaries, dilemmas, and convictions spread about before him. His eyes caught the shimmer of stars and midnight oils, and barely reflected them back, only raising his crown to bow at the nameless heathens no longer truly guarding their borders, before shuffling into winter’s void. The warrior enjoyed its forlorn, desolate silence for a change, didn’t hasten off to explore and bounce, leap and prance, amidst its haunting gallows, pretending naught was amiss, carrying pretense by pretense until the world drifted off again, down into its wicked lairs and consuming quandaries. The pair, for he was rarely without his sable fox, shuffled their way around curves of snow and patches of ice, sliding along into the eclipse of twilight veils and distortion, eager, fervent, ready to lay amidst their chosen cavern and sleep off the weariness, the wanton, hot, molten wrath settled into his essence, into his soul, trying to figure out how to not abandon morality when all he yearned to do, all he wished, craved, and desired, was to slay a nameless figure. Coiled and curled between the annals of iniquity and valor, and leaning further and further to the former with every passing instant, he ventured along the outskirts of several apertures, rocky walls indented and familiar, before crossing towards the same path he always took: towards the lake. Out of habit, he intended to wander amidst its contents and brood until slumber finally took hold of him, or forgo the heady, cumbersome weight on his shoulders, and clamber into his routine of practicing skirmishes, bloody sword fights, with indiscernible targets. One in particular stood out, but had no face, no title, no calling but the haunting lines and scars marring Enna’s figure – Orsino grunted something over their connection as one of the youth’s daggers had dared to make an indent on the water’s surface. He stopped, hoof poised in mid-air, ceasing all movement except the twitching of his ears – because they caught the distinct sound of crying. He’d know the decibels, the struggle to keep them contained, quiet, so the rest of the empire, so the rest of the realm, couldn’t hear the touches of failure, the glimmering shards of weakness, of ineptitude. A frown sketched its way over his mouth, a shifting of his gaze from the lake to the hot springs, where the weeping resonance seemed to echo from the warm curls, and he considered what to do, how to act. Only when Orsino meandered closer, when Erebos had scarcely moved, and the kitsune had peeked and scoffed at who was lamenting, did the prince do anything other than stare into oblivion. Enna, the tiny cretin extended, saying naught more, leaving the soldier to contemplate his next actions. The first temptation was to simply evade, escape, and twist away at all costs. The second was to console, but he wouldn’t know what to say, and was likely somewhat of a cause for the tears (the words exchanged had been harsh, unrelenting, and a bit of a loss for both of them). He grimaced, hesitating once or twice, torn in either direction, before sighing, ripping off the discomfort plaguing his senses, and meandered, slowly, towards the springs. As he advanced, that gallant stare focused on the lacerations lacquered to her skin, the traces of damage above and below the surface, the unwinding bravery she must’ve shown in the face of such danger, and the feral, stupid way he’d acted because he’d just wanted to make it right. He still did. He still had every intention of finding and pursuing the beast who dared to harm her, who’d assailed her with no rhyme, no reason – but he wouldn’t tell her that now, not when she was close to splintering and breaking apart, not when she’d tried to convince him there were other ways (methods he couldn’t fathom, see, or understand). So the lad, the scion, the little blue fiend who only tried to reach out and touch the world, maneuvered in front of her, sidling and lowering himself to the ground, not touching her fragments, not eyeing her shards, and unfurled one guttural apology. “Sorry,” he stated, sad and aloof, half a lie hidden behind his teeth because he wasn’t entirely sure what to regret. He was sorry for a lot of things, and not all at once. |
- table by Niki -
