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There was a bitter, rancorous portion of him that still blistered at Weaver’s words, at the outcry, at the sharpened points remaining in his chest – between the in this moment, turning on my army, and being far more understanding, all he could muster was a barbaric, twisted comparison: I’ll show you. He’d display his countenance, his words, his echoes, his throngs, his battle-ridden mind, his sentiments, all the lacquer of his worth to them, and they could do with it what they liked (but lord, perhaps he did rest too much on wishing they would have confidence in him, some pride in his abilities, some notion of value in his potency; that he was more than a prince and a fool, a youth in sword’s clothing). He could hear Orsino’s malicious tongue clawing at him through their bond, and he maneuvered forward, into danger and treachery, into peril, into disaster, to protect, to defend, to calculate, to ruin.
It shouldn’t have been so relishing, so satisfying, to embrace the feel of his rapier sliding through the bear’s flesh, cutting, slashing, and lacerating; but triumph embraced its way along the carnivorous walls of his nefarious heart, blending into the valor, into the gallantry, so no one would know which had bested which (the savagery and the intrepid, the audacious and the bloody). He wanted to smirk, he wanted to laugh, he wanted to taste the contentment of war crawling through his skull; but the moment was not made to last, because no sooner had he lanced the great beast did the ursine swing one of its menacing paws and claws his way. Move! resounded within his head, toppled the stature of his maliciousness, and he could hear Wessex shouting about the manacles, but the din had been too late, and even as he dashed ahead, trying to reach someone, anyone, to push them out of the way, the claws raked along his back like knives.
The pain was excruciating, and he growled, hissed, at the twisting bout of agony bursting along his body – but he didn’t crumble, he didn’t flail, he didn’t trip to the ground like he had with Ashamin, all those seasons ago. He buried the misery, he stifled the suffering, he kept it under lock and key and muffled breaths, eyes widening, gazing, at the chaos unfolding before him – striving to reach for his allies, for his comrades, to throw himself before them so the cretin couldn’t get their hides too. The General ran on fumes and aggression, on boldness and calamity, on sedition and irreverence, twisting back into the flames so no one else would be burdened, would be mauled, or would be lacerated. He aimed to ignore the blood dripping along his sides, launching onwards, forgoing the unrelenting pain each stride ruptured in his cranium (he could fall apart later, not now), narrowed eyes watching the others (with such pride that it echoed along his chest, past the splintered points, past the anguish – he yearned to shout at them, to tell them Well done, but the day wasn’t over, the fight wasn’t extinguished). Then, with his horn aimed for the bear’s chest, he dug into his fury for the flames of his lineage, hastening them to his touch, so that if his cutlass managed to pierce flesh again, it would burn - conquering and brutal, belligerent and vicious, victorious and unholy, pieces of infernal vengeance.
[The bears’ claws hits Erebos in the back, causing some bleeding and pain. Erebos aims for the bear’s chest, hoping to infuse it with his fire magic if he manages to hit.
Another, and likely the last, NPC post will be up next week!]
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[O] clear your throat and face the world [patrol]
