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05-06-2017, 07:09 PM
He resisted another temptation to snort or chide the constant bickering between Wessex and Rikyn (because the latter couldn’t resist a scathing, ridiculous remark ever and the former seemed intent on giving him a taste of his own medicine), ignoring them entirely, nodding at Rhodoc, and forgoing the asinine retorts for a narrowing of his eyes, a speculation on the horizon. The pup was the first alarming notion; dangling and shuffling its way near a precarious ledge, completely unaware of the delicacy of its situation (Orsino then muttered something about morons, and Erebos didn't feel a single shred of remorse as his command sent the kitsune on his way). But then there was something else entirely - a shift in movement and motion, a hunt, a predatory sweeping of feet and limbs, gnashing teeth, fiendish claws, and he watched as nasty cretins and creatures appeared from the shadows, launching by the wolf child and Orsino’s snapping teeth, straight towards the slumbering babysitter. Wessex barked out her commands, and he didn’t bristle, didn’t gawk, at the one being directed and ordered; perhaps she thought clearer, could make out more distinctions than the rest of them, or knew that the roots of violence had begun to creep through his mind, lash, rip, tear, an ensnaring depth of provocation and annihilation, that clarity was far from his carnivorous, rapacious intentions. She kept him rooted, segmented on the child and other little beasts, so he didn’t frown as he stalked forward, yearning to turn amidst the others into bloodshed and glory, longing to merely delve into the streamline of death and desecration, to sear his horn into their sides, to unravel violence, to picture enemies obliterated instead of mere trolls. It would’ve been so much easier to unfurl, to uncoil, to destroy; it was what he was meant to do – but a more persistent task had been tossed to him, and like the noble, valorous, honorable cretin he always pretended to be, he adhered to it. While Orsino’s ivories reached towards the pup’s extra fur along the cuff of his neck, the General intended to stalk and protect, looming beside the sable, kitsune figure and his echoing hisses (Get over here, idiot spat in some fox language) like a shield, like a guardian, rigid and gallant, listening to Enyo’s beak clicking and claws ticking over stone, eyes once again turned solely to battle, to prominence, to mayhem. Wonder and conjecture appealed to him too, churned along his mind with an eerie sense of satisfaction, combing through those wicked webs, those deceitful airs, those specious gallows; pondering over the length of his invocations and enchantments. So, as he stared at the trolls and their vile ways and methods, he implored and motivated his own – reaching, plucking, down into the conniving sway of his enchantments, pouring them out in a silent, slinking crawl, intending for them to reach, to scatter, to dive and harpoon over the nefarious inhabitants with pain and agony, an unwinding misery, an unrelenting viciousness, spiraling over their thoughts, their motions, their corrupted vessels. OOC;; [While Orsino attempts to take hold of the cub and tug him away from the ledge, Erebos stands guard and tries to hit the trolls (from a fair distance), with his dark corruption magic.] TAG;; @[ ] |
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