The Portal
08-14-2017, 11:59 PM
The Rift had already anointed him with its nefarious touch. Some were unremarkable, annoying, a tad ridiculous, like the snakes intertwining from his chin where there should’ve been tangles and threads of hair (some black, some white – but these cretins were all mist and fog, like everything else in this damned world). Some were intriguing, triumphant, a pull from another empire, the etching of former Gods, spiraling from his skull marking in the fog, in the murk, in the din – a reminder of so many things that he held near and dear to his blackguard heart. Then some were malignant and bruising, wretched and consuming: the bites and scars from the sirens’ beasts, the lack of his fire invocations, the absence of Enyo, the silence of Orsino – that left him stuck and crawling amongst a void, bestial, brutal, working his way through ruthless rhythms and unrelenting schemes, slithering towards a day when everything would be his again. The prince intended to show this new hell just exactly what he was made of – persistence, tenacity, endurance, fortitude, strength, potency, prowess, and vengeance. He was going to ensure it would rue the hours, the moments, the instances, it ever crossed his rancorous, audacious soul. He’d grit his teeth, he’d harpoon gods, and he’d fell cities until he got what he wanted. If the earth yearned to watch him spin avarice and greed into his mercurial whims, then the die had already been cast, the sword already glinting, the stratagems already taking place.
So he persevered, angling his way through the doom and gloom as if he belonged to it, another one of the shadows, christened, immersed, and consecrated by black endeavors and Stygian enterprises. His movements were predatory, insistent, hunting, stalking the legions of furtive, deceptive parlors and hallways over and over again for the same motives and crusades – finding the lost. The General wasn’t entirely altruistic: he favored those he knew, those he cherished, those he remembered and recalled from eons spent amidst glaciers and summits, valleys, unfreezing lakes, friends and family, kin and countrymen, fellow soldiers, those who had nowhere else to go. His hopes, still residual pieces of a more valorous time, when kingdoms hadn’t fallen apart and deities hadn’t been falsehoods, glinted on raven wings and serval paws, or stag antlers, curling tendrils of silken white. They weren’t tainted yet, blinded by the restless dreams of retribution and renewal: all boyish ambition, all impish reserve, all arrogant regard. He’d find them – he was certain. It was written in his heart, in his lungs, in his bones, in his marrow, in his flesh.
The scope of his narrowed eyes watched neon beams and streaks of light punctured through the foggy air, and followed them. They usually meant something, he’d come to learn; the appearance of others, finally come to a new, godforsaken shore, hoping for something better, something brighter, and drowned in the wake of the foreign soil, the bewitching, eldritch vacuity. His hooves barely made a sound, he was a whisper, he was a blade, and Orsino painted one more sable picture into the mess, a portrait of potent brushstrokes seeking out another who’d delved straight along the madness…
But then all he saw was her.
She was more or less the same as he’d last seen her – and it tore a rankled breath from his lungs, a small, relieved fury curled around his chest. “Enna!” He bristled and carved his way along the land without so much as a care, savagery and might, forgetting the painful reminders of his recent curiosities, forgoing the silliness of his appearance, racing, so entirely grateful this land hadn’t bruised her yet, that she’d been found, that she was safe (and he’d make sure, he’d always make sure) –
Another glimpsed into his sights, and he suddenly froze, completely, utterly still.
Erebos didn’t recognize the other stallion, but perhaps he should have, because there was something strikingly familiar about him – like he’d seen those markings before, painted on someone else. He hadn’t heard him shout her name too, but he’d seen the closeness, the near proximity, the dusting of his touch on her cheek. Orsino settled near his forelegs while the scion’s nostrils flared, while a dastardly, lethal contortion rippled through his figure, through his being. It stayed there, clawing, ripping, tearing, a maddening sensation, a swift imposition of rage and contempt, eager, fervent, ready to dash straight into his muscles. Beyond that was a mess of confusion too, misunderstandings and befuddlement warping into blistering measures and calculated guesses, most distasteful, toxic; his eyes narrowed, segmented on both of them, steps inclined towards the darkness again, where maybe none of them could see the marks the empire had already scored into his frame (lesser; he felt less than them, lacking, stupid, passed over, tossed aside). “Welcome to the Rift,” the soldier nodded to both, taut and rebellious, wondering why he’d searched for so long, why he’d bothered at all.
So he persevered, angling his way through the doom and gloom as if he belonged to it, another one of the shadows, christened, immersed, and consecrated by black endeavors and Stygian enterprises. His movements were predatory, insistent, hunting, stalking the legions of furtive, deceptive parlors and hallways over and over again for the same motives and crusades – finding the lost. The General wasn’t entirely altruistic: he favored those he knew, those he cherished, those he remembered and recalled from eons spent amidst glaciers and summits, valleys, unfreezing lakes, friends and family, kin and countrymen, fellow soldiers, those who had nowhere else to go. His hopes, still residual pieces of a more valorous time, when kingdoms hadn’t fallen apart and deities hadn’t been falsehoods, glinted on raven wings and serval paws, or stag antlers, curling tendrils of silken white. They weren’t tainted yet, blinded by the restless dreams of retribution and renewal: all boyish ambition, all impish reserve, all arrogant regard. He’d find them – he was certain. It was written in his heart, in his lungs, in his bones, in his marrow, in his flesh.
The scope of his narrowed eyes watched neon beams and streaks of light punctured through the foggy air, and followed them. They usually meant something, he’d come to learn; the appearance of others, finally come to a new, godforsaken shore, hoping for something better, something brighter, and drowned in the wake of the foreign soil, the bewitching, eldritch vacuity. His hooves barely made a sound, he was a whisper, he was a blade, and Orsino painted one more sable picture into the mess, a portrait of potent brushstrokes seeking out another who’d delved straight along the madness…
But then all he saw was her.
She was more or less the same as he’d last seen her – and it tore a rankled breath from his lungs, a small, relieved fury curled around his chest. “Enna!” He bristled and carved his way along the land without so much as a care, savagery and might, forgetting the painful reminders of his recent curiosities, forgoing the silliness of his appearance, racing, so entirely grateful this land hadn’t bruised her yet, that she’d been found, that she was safe (and he’d make sure, he’d always make sure) –
Another glimpsed into his sights, and he suddenly froze, completely, utterly still.
Erebos didn’t recognize the other stallion, but perhaps he should have, because there was something strikingly familiar about him – like he’d seen those markings before, painted on someone else. He hadn’t heard him shout her name too, but he’d seen the closeness, the near proximity, the dusting of his touch on her cheek. Orsino settled near his forelegs while the scion’s nostrils flared, while a dastardly, lethal contortion rippled through his figure, through his being. It stayed there, clawing, ripping, tearing, a maddening sensation, a swift imposition of rage and contempt, eager, fervent, ready to dash straight into his muscles. Beyond that was a mess of confusion too, misunderstandings and befuddlement warping into blistering measures and calculated guesses, most distasteful, toxic; his eyes narrowed, segmented on both of them, steps inclined towards the darkness again, where maybe none of them could see the marks the empire had already scored into his frame (lesser; he felt less than them, lacking, stupid, passed over, tossed aside). “Welcome to the Rift,” the soldier nodded to both, taut and rebellious, wondering why he’d searched for so long, why he’d bothered at all.
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
@Rohan @Enna
