EREBOS

Sometimes Erebos thought very little of the consequences of his actions – too caught up in the chase, in the spectacle, in the rush to devastate or destroy that the rest of the earth wasn’t of much importance. The beast didn’t listen when Orsino hissed about the cold, about the wind, about the squall barreling into them. The scion didn’t listen when the ravenous chill sunk into his marrow, shattered his breath into massive puffs of vapor and nothingness. Reckless and brazen, he was tied too deeply to the funnels of rage now to be anything other than a blue tempest, bestial and rapacious, mercenary and tethered, chained, caught in the ramifications of not being enough. He blistered and scorched, seethed and sizzled, racing against the tides of time and hostility, bound to promises and convictions he could never quite keep – everything always dangling just out of his reach.
 
This last moment lingered and haunted though (broken hides and barely rising ribs, fresh scars, mottled bits of blood still tender, still raw), pressed him onward when he should have slowed, when he should have glanced, when he should have thought instead of growled, howled, and chased after the void of wrath and contempt. But the boy’s need for vengeance was too strong, too deliberate, too emboldened, an audacious plunge into the ferocity of beasts and vermin, where he turned devilish whims into unholy aspirations – and he ran straight for Hell, stared it in the face of the oncoming storm.
 
The Steppe was full of snow and rime, chilling, deceitful wind that beckoned and toyed with his mind, coaxing and enticing him into disastrous duels with nothing and no one. Enna’s attacker wasn’t here, outlined by the mountain horizon or the forlorn pine already laden with ice – but lord, Erebos wanted him to be. He yearned for the chance, the opportunity, to beat, to demolish, to ravage, to utterly ruin whatever demon had desecrated one of his beloved friends – so much so that he screamed some battle cry into the midst of the rampaging blizzard suddenly coating the world (blinding him to nothing but white, white, and white when all he wanted was red), daring some other reckless soul to join him in oblivion, in the shades of bleak corruption. He called for anarchy, for sedition, for blood and disaster, and tried to forget the feeling of ineptitude crawling over his skin.
 
Maybe he’d be ripped apart, scarred, and broken up just a little more, so he could carry on being useless.

[0/3. 420 words. Brit may have first move!
Erebos and Cera spar! Regular, no training.
Setting: Per Brit’s request, set in a blizzard along Frostbreath Steppe. Daytime (noonish?). Very chilly, snow in faces, harsh, unrelenting wind. Erebos is standing within an wide open area.]