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At the very least, they’d yielded to his commands, spying out from across the void while he only wanted to fall apart into it, become laced and layered and lacquered with the ruthless polish of the earth. There would always be a contortion within him that was savage and sinister, cunning and immoral – but never to them, and the way Weaver responded, the way her inquiry molded itself to the ether, to the horizon, to the wood, harpooned its meticulous potency straight into his soul. He felt himself nearly crumble, shifting his stance so it didn’t appear as if he might break, features faltering to those days of childish wonder and abandon, overwhelming sadness and desolation, eyes rounded to a widened abyss, instantly lost, blinded, stagnant. He glanced away almost immediately, staring off into the trees, pondering why she’d said it, what he’d done to deserve it, or if he’d never shown them he was worth trusting. Maybe he grinned too much, youthful and buoyant because he just waned to do something other than endure loss and anguish. Perhaps they’d caught hold of his schemes and plots, his dastardly, Machiavellian exploits, and believed they’d wandered into the midst of his traps. The blue prince wanted to rescind and scoff abruptly, rebuke her claims, cry out into the hollowed empire of his deeds, of what he yearned and craved for them, for all of their souls and entities and figures, but pondered if it would fall on deaf ears, if it would carry any meaning at all. He’d have to supply the response with action instead of argument, with deliverance, with liberation, with strength and accord, the way his sire had always done (protecting, defying, upholding sedition and decadence for the good of his herd). So, he waited for several moments, allowing the inquiry to pass over his gallant heart one more time, sear it, splice it, splinter it away, before glancing back to Weaver and her wings. “Have I given you a reason not to trust me?” He hoped his voice didn’t carry the weight of his dejection, didn’t waver, didn’t falter, didn’t trip or stumble, aiming to pinpoint it with strength and tenacity, with a persevering force truly simmering through his bones.
Then his ears flickered to Beloved, who took firm hold of Weaver’s prior questions and spun her story of Kaos with an eerie reverence – perhaps she kneeled at his bony shrine when she wasn’t upholding Erebos’ commands – centering her modicums of warfare upon condemnation and iniquity. The General watched her then, narrowed his eyes briefly, mind skimming and toiling with all the possibilities of Beloved and her eldritch estate, if her mind was whole, if her body was in tact, if she came from the underworld, a demon’s mistress spat out from its unholy vessels. He did nothing else about it, however, didn’t respond to her adoration and glorification of a beast who’d only deceived and murdered, because a portion of him felt he couldn’t deny or refute her worship of another god. Maybe in another time, another place, he too would’ve been inspired and incensed by the measure of Kaos’ cunning, the fortitude, the might, the obvious savagery, but he’d been born between mountains and ridges, caverns and glaciers, and had already pledged his life to so many.
But he granted Weaver another version of the tale too, in hopes she could arrive at her own conclusions (trying not to forget the weight her words held on him, the sword she’d stuck in his chest). “Several seasons ago there were different creatures coming to Helovia from the Rift.” The concept was still foreign to him, a little out of touch; he’d been too young to completely fathom and understand all the rich colors and dazzling sights, too consumed and amused by the exposure of new kingdoms and lands. “Our Gods brought them, along with some of their terrain, here. But monsters, demons, and deities came too.” He remembered the rush, the nefariousness, the embodiment of power and majesty, of fortitude and might, when he and his friends had all claimed the madness too, joined in the slaughter, vowing to protect and uphold what they couldn’t comprehend. “We thought they’d all fallen under our assaults, but Kaos ended up forging them together again.” There he stopped, nodding, hoping to have filled in the gaps, eyes staring back into the copse, into the snow, into the world.
The General’s attention turned to Wessex briefly, bobbing his head in agreement with her discernments. Maybe there was something out there, big and deadly, potent and lethal, and they were sitting ducks, awaiting the inevitable. At least she had the regard not to set him ablaze with scorn, with fury, or with a resounding misery, so he addressed her with a roguish smile –
That faltered at the sound of a blistering roar.
All at once he was a maelstrom, a tempest, a blur of movement and motion, striding directly in front of them to be the keeper, the guardian, the sentinel, shielding them away from the calamities of the darkness, the rolling revolution of beasts and infidels. It hadn’t been a test he’d summoned, Orsino shook his head, not wielding any incantations, not murmuring calamity, deception, or chicanery – and so he roamed a little bit more forward, following the thunderous outcry, the rush of wind and devastation, entirely too bold, too audacious. “I think we found your predator,” he murmured to Wessex, striving for a moment of amusement between the levels of unease and revelation, advancing, climbing higher and higher, Orsino musing and hissing, as they began to decipher what haunted in the midst of the frosted loam.
The bear was a quick, swift shadow, unleashing its terrible, horrific bellow upon another (a large girl he didn’t know, a painted stranger caught in the lines and tethers, and it didn’t seem to matter that she was foreign), and he raced forward, head down, horn extended, eager, ready, fervent for the fray.
[Erebos rushes forward towards the bear. Another NPC post will be made by next week! ;D]
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[O] clear your throat and face the world [patrol]
