of recoil and grace

the Rift

[OPEN] of recoil and grace

Erebos Posts: 474

Aurora Basin General atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 6.5

Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 75.5 | Buff: DANCE

Orsino :: Plain Kitsune :: Dark Illusions & Enyo :: Common Griffon :: Draining Clutch Heather

#19

02-09-2017, 05:58 PM

More came as he kneeled beside his father’s still, prone figure, some blending into denial, a sentiment he yearned to implore, dive within, wall himself off from the harsh reality sinking through his bones – but he can’t, because his sire deserved so much better than to merely pretend his demise held no meaning, no sacrifice, no challenge. He nodded to the little candy girl, with her potpourri satchel lingering, taken to rest on the long, drenched tassels of the Reaper’s blackened mane, restlessly proffering her with a “Thank you,” when he didn’t know what else to say, when he just wanted to crack, sliver by sliver, become a shard, a nuance, a piece of ash and dust.

But Enna brought him resolution, dear wise, all-knowing Enna – and he didn’t dare query as to how or why she could think, how she could proceed, beyond the depths of death, but he was entirely grateful for the notion, for the inclination. He hoped his eyes shown it, because his voice couldn’t, not again, not without crackling and falling apart, not without breaking down into a million, frozen little portions, swept into the foils and cascades, the rolling siege of droplets and storms. His gaze went from her to the mountainside, where a tomb could become more than just an area of remembrance, but of honor, of glory, of all the things Deimos had done, accomplished, aided, and safeguarded. No more than a second later, Orsino, usually scathing, usually cruel, usually harsh and utterly demanding, stole across the valley, running towards the summits, the peaks, the rising outcrops of bitter pathways and icy fortitudes.

Find place was all he said to the youth left behind, a promise between fiends and cretins, between bonded allies and misguided hearts.

Erebos tried not to cry again, tried not to echo one more volley of tears running down his face, mixing in with the rain, the soot, the terrible, consuming anguish. He strived, pushed down the bile coating his throat, the sorrow, pushing for fortitude and might, for deliverance and liberation when naught seemed to be in sight. So that he may always be a part of them, a part of the Basin; haunted, beautiful, poignant, lacerating him for far longer than it should. “We can do that,” he nodded, as if there was naught more to add, as if he’d presumed the role of assurance when none truly existed in his bones, in his veins (and he almost dared someone to think otherwise, to say no, and then he'd have another reason to burst at the seams). Everything wanted to wash away, wanted to run rampant into the lake, into the seas, into the air, but he couldn’t let it, because Deimos wouldn’t have wanted him to be this shallow, hushed beast, empty, hollowed, a void on the horizon.

So he lowered himself, shifted a broad shoulder beneath his father’s, and took the first step towards reclaiming the rites of the Reaper. “Can you help me carry him?” He asked the crowd (he begged, he pleaded), stare pointed to the mass, to the hoards of citizens his father had somehow managed to inspire, invoke, or incense, asking them to commit to the northern King’s pursuits one last time.