The world exploded before him, contorted in mayhem, consigned to the riches of bedlam. Years later, he might’ve rejoiced at the scene, felt his heart shudder at the wake of so many opportunities to unravel, to unveil, to drive unholy ventures down into the roots of pandemonium – but his soul was too tired, too exhausted, too fraught with peril to do anything but stare.
 
There were seemingly no answers. Others fought, flashing their swords, their armor, their might and will towards the monster – and though they’d seen it all before, though they’d brandished weapons and heralded all of their thunderous glory into disaster and vile, rotten heathens, it didn’t seem to matter now. Fire was deflected. Beings were scattered. Warriors were felled. Children cried, followed others out of harm’s way.
 
His mind twisted and turned into so many directions at once – some echoed over the lungs of others with a fall back and he glanced around wondering who’d shouted (because it certainly hadn’t been Orsino), and then the blue, lightning mare summoned them all to fight, and everything burned down into his sights, into his chest, crawling and rasping over his marrow until he was just as maddened and ignited, incensed and infuriated, as the rest.
 
When did he ever give in?
 
Aithniel was out there somewhere too, all white and glistening fury, but he knew better than to follow, to drive himself into the open to be attacked, assaulted, and annihilated like the silvern femme (who’d seemed to only want to protect her babe, and even that smoldered and seethed along the curls and coils of his audacity; a taste of vengeance, a legion of seething ambition, a touch, a relish, of the old foundations begging him for abhorrence and direction).
 
He nodded to Volterra, and proceeded, slowly, carefully, forward, along shadows and walls, along infernal alleys and twisted pathways, staring at the collection of moving bones and awakening wrath. Contempt flooded through his system, and it obeyed with such an unrelenting grace – eager, fervent, ready to overcome grief, anguish, and misery with lacquered loathing – that he extended the tiniest of smiles over the length of his lips. The corruption seethed and touched along his bones, bewitching, extending towards the massive cretin like a thread of darkness, desperate to tip the scales, to entice and encourage, to spell him into disaster and ruin, rubble and desecration. A command whispered through the shroud, stop, a beckoning for the beast to yield for just a moment, to cease movement, to abruptly alter its course into nothingness, so the rest of the realm could obliterate it.

[Erebos tries to use his corruption magic to get the bone monster to stop moving for a sec. ;D]

Erebos

i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want