Siren's Summit
07-29-2017, 11:51 PM
It wasn’t the sirens that called him here – but the mountain.
Perhaps it was like a toxin, like a temptation, like an enticement all its own – without the grasping songs or the weightless musings – because he saw it above the heavens, looming like a fortress, like a proud monolith, and it called to him. Ice and glaciers were in his blood, born from the wintry, chilling tempests, the glorious heights, the cold, nonchalant winds, and though this wasn’t the same (it never could be), it still poured through his soul and traced over the foundation of his veins. He chased after it as if it were a dream, entranced and enshrouded, beguiled and allured, by its calm, guardian stature, by the promise of snow on its crest, by the benediction and solidity of ancient monuments always rising, conspiring, to stand above the rest. The prince’s movements and motions were zealous, nearly savage in their wake, in their zest, to clamber into its surroundings, forgetting the words of looking ahead, glancing fully backwards until he thought it could’ve once been the Basin, one lonely peak grazing the sky, one sword, one dagger, one knife, piercing its blade into the finery of empires and the fortitude of palaces. He could’ve been the scion again, studying under his father’s watchful eye, gallivanting in search of adventure, in search of disaster, in search of absolute wonder and merriment; devilry before the fall (and it had come to him – after all those years of yearning – thrust directly into bedlam and misery). Orsino trailed behind him, wary and uncertain, but their disconnect was still too rampant, and his uncanny eyes, because the boy was preoccupied with the range, with the dormant volcano, and not the clear, vivid lake presiding nearby (perhaps more treacherous, more dangerous), couldn’t provide the reasons or advice Erebos so desperately required.
Even the pine groves, even the evergreens, even the fir, had a distinct regard to him – he pressed his maw into a few branches and remembered the glory of racing through their threshold as a child. He nearly yielded entirely to their spell, and stood amidst their glamor, their enchantments, their invocations, intoxicated, hypnotized, thought about bowing and pledging his allegiance to its soil, to its earth, to its summit simply because it felt almost like home. The scion’s eyes traced over the foundation, the rock, the crag, the shifting of earth, and though it wasn’t the same, a piece of him felt whole, for the slightest of moments.
Until his stare found the obsidian rocks, sticking out of the ground. They were like Stygian monuments, inscribed with faded lettering he’d have no hope of reading – and he knew he wasn’t in the land he truly belonged within – made all the more clear as his stare continued surveying the world, glancing off the blue lake (which could have been like theirs - unfreezing, where his strides gathered, launched, leaped, and fought). It haunted, a ghost right on the horizon, and he sighed, leveling his stare down to Orsino, who could only drum an unremarkable growl. He’d always wished, hoped, and strived for far too much.
Perhaps it was like a toxin, like a temptation, like an enticement all its own – without the grasping songs or the weightless musings – because he saw it above the heavens, looming like a fortress, like a proud monolith, and it called to him. Ice and glaciers were in his blood, born from the wintry, chilling tempests, the glorious heights, the cold, nonchalant winds, and though this wasn’t the same (it never could be), it still poured through his soul and traced over the foundation of his veins. He chased after it as if it were a dream, entranced and enshrouded, beguiled and allured, by its calm, guardian stature, by the promise of snow on its crest, by the benediction and solidity of ancient monuments always rising, conspiring, to stand above the rest. The prince’s movements and motions were zealous, nearly savage in their wake, in their zest, to clamber into its surroundings, forgetting the words of looking ahead, glancing fully backwards until he thought it could’ve once been the Basin, one lonely peak grazing the sky, one sword, one dagger, one knife, piercing its blade into the finery of empires and the fortitude of palaces. He could’ve been the scion again, studying under his father’s watchful eye, gallivanting in search of adventure, in search of disaster, in search of absolute wonder and merriment; devilry before the fall (and it had come to him – after all those years of yearning – thrust directly into bedlam and misery). Orsino trailed behind him, wary and uncertain, but their disconnect was still too rampant, and his uncanny eyes, because the boy was preoccupied with the range, with the dormant volcano, and not the clear, vivid lake presiding nearby (perhaps more treacherous, more dangerous), couldn’t provide the reasons or advice Erebos so desperately required.
Even the pine groves, even the evergreens, even the fir, had a distinct regard to him – he pressed his maw into a few branches and remembered the glory of racing through their threshold as a child. He nearly yielded entirely to their spell, and stood amidst their glamor, their enchantments, their invocations, intoxicated, hypnotized, thought about bowing and pledging his allegiance to its soil, to its earth, to its summit simply because it felt almost like home. The scion’s eyes traced over the foundation, the rock, the crag, the shifting of earth, and though it wasn’t the same, a piece of him felt whole, for the slightest of moments.
Until his stare found the obsidian rocks, sticking out of the ground. They were like Stygian monuments, inscribed with faded lettering he’d have no hope of reading – and he knew he wasn’t in the land he truly belonged within – made all the more clear as his stare continued surveying the world, glancing off the blue lake (which could have been like theirs - unfreezing, where his strides gathered, launched, leaped, and fought). It haunted, a ghost right on the horizon, and he sighed, leveling his stare down to Orsino, who could only drum an unremarkable growl. He’d always wished, hoped, and strived for far too much.
Erebos
clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in
@Weaver
