Siren's Summit
09-09-2017, 11:10 PM
It was inevitable that he’d be punished for his curiosity. The beast had always been too enamored, too befuddled, too intoxicated by the bright, blistering chords of the unknown, lost to their fathoms, to their riches, to their desolation, soulless and transfixed until he’d discovered the roots and causes. Even now, drunken and stupefied, addled and chained, he’d been poised to be taken in by the taut lines of intrigue and recklessness, driven down into the depths of his passions – allowed to be himself, for just the tiniest fraction of moments. Eventually, even the sparks, the notions, of so many chaotic, bedlam embraces, fervent finesses, would catch up with the cretin.
He broke out of the stupor the moment the sirens appeared, screaming, screeching, bellowing at him with their long fingers and their horrifying allure; his eyes widened, and he had nothing to add, nothing to say, for what he’d done. He thought, in the minute instance, to look across and find Weaver, to almost laugh it all away (because that’d be simpler, that’d be easy, to shrug and forget his transgressions when they continued to eat at him, piece by piece, morsel by morsel). But seconds later, it didn’t really matter, for he was forced to the embankment, to the shore, backing towards the ramparts as the water began to boil beneath his feet, and the rapid churn, turn, of events coiled within his mind (everything was a threat here, everything was dangerous, treacherous, and even in his most savage, sadistic occasion, he couldn’t measure up to their prowess). The boy, the once-prince, the idiot should’ve seen it all coming, but he’d been robbed of his senses, he’d taken leave of anything but the mountains, the sea-side, the way the earth was cloaked in constant shadow and duplicity. The situation only became worse as the blobs bubbling below the surface were suddenly unleashed in a torrent of flailing rage (as if he’d committed the greatest of sins for touching a flower, for daring to dream in softer things and vivid details). He had no escape as they launched at his side, as their teeth cut into his hide, as he emitted his own blunt shouts and outcries of pain.
Because it was suddenly misery all over again, and he was going to drown, he was going to fall apart, he was going to finally come undone, after all these indiscretions…
Orsino grumbled, hissed, and grabbed ahold of some of the beasts along his bonded’s lower legs, snapping, ravaging, and threatening to peel them until there’d be nothing left of their entities. It’d be enough – to fight back, to always dig in, to forge onward as he’d always done (when his father died and he wanted to launch from the highest mountain, when he lost Enyo and promised to get her back, when he stretched out the darkest emblems and oaths of his life and dragged Calstron to hell), to be an unstoppable force, to be another fiend in this game of lies and corruption, condemnation and deceit. He might’ve roared, looked past the void to stare at Weaver (not asking, not yearning, not longing for her to come closer, because she’d wouldn’t be safe here, but maybe to watch as he tore the world from limb to limb), and asked for the embers, for the flames, for the burning, seething maelstrom of his magic to swirl, to smoke, to fume, to sigh, into the chaos.
Then the invocations didn’t answer.
It was gone, barren, a void, a careless, empty vessel – no fire licking at his veins, no inferno threatening to engulf the soulless channel, and the most wicked laugh poured from his mouth in response (it was all so stupid, so god damned stupid). It’d been one of his father’s gifts, a lineage drawn to Ignatius, from hours, days, months, and years spent in the rush of rapture and reverie, a kiss of antipathy and acrimony, a promise of ruin, of devastation – silenced, just like Orsino, vanished, just like Enyo.
He didn’t have time to mourn its loss either, sweeping it aside in a flurry of absolute rage, so tired of losing everything, so tired of dreaming with naught coming to fruition, so tired of the constant misery, the endless trials. His teeth dragged over the lampreys’ forms and ripped them from his own flesh, his wrath, his contempt, his abhorrence grew and grew, an expansion of rage and barbarity, blistering over his mind – painting an illuminating portrait of misery, of woe, of constant corruption and agony. Then he funneled the savagery deep into his bones, felt the carnivorous blend of broken, beaten miseries, and attempted to launch it at each and every beast devouring his soul – pain for pain, an echo, a chasm, of other beings’ sent to rest into this dominion of damnation.
{While Orsino tries to take some lampreys off of Erebos, Erebos attempts to use his teeth to knock some away. Erebos then tries to use his dark magic on the creatures, hoping to imbed enough pain/torment/agony into them so they’d leave/gtfo. ;D}
He broke out of the stupor the moment the sirens appeared, screaming, screeching, bellowing at him with their long fingers and their horrifying allure; his eyes widened, and he had nothing to add, nothing to say, for what he’d done. He thought, in the minute instance, to look across and find Weaver, to almost laugh it all away (because that’d be simpler, that’d be easy, to shrug and forget his transgressions when they continued to eat at him, piece by piece, morsel by morsel). But seconds later, it didn’t really matter, for he was forced to the embankment, to the shore, backing towards the ramparts as the water began to boil beneath his feet, and the rapid churn, turn, of events coiled within his mind (everything was a threat here, everything was dangerous, treacherous, and even in his most savage, sadistic occasion, he couldn’t measure up to their prowess). The boy, the once-prince, the idiot should’ve seen it all coming, but he’d been robbed of his senses, he’d taken leave of anything but the mountains, the sea-side, the way the earth was cloaked in constant shadow and duplicity. The situation only became worse as the blobs bubbling below the surface were suddenly unleashed in a torrent of flailing rage (as if he’d committed the greatest of sins for touching a flower, for daring to dream in softer things and vivid details). He had no escape as they launched at his side, as their teeth cut into his hide, as he emitted his own blunt shouts and outcries of pain.
Because it was suddenly misery all over again, and he was going to drown, he was going to fall apart, he was going to finally come undone, after all these indiscretions…
Orsino grumbled, hissed, and grabbed ahold of some of the beasts along his bonded’s lower legs, snapping, ravaging, and threatening to peel them until there’d be nothing left of their entities. It’d be enough – to fight back, to always dig in, to forge onward as he’d always done (when his father died and he wanted to launch from the highest mountain, when he lost Enyo and promised to get her back, when he stretched out the darkest emblems and oaths of his life and dragged Calstron to hell), to be an unstoppable force, to be another fiend in this game of lies and corruption, condemnation and deceit. He might’ve roared, looked past the void to stare at Weaver (not asking, not yearning, not longing for her to come closer, because she’d wouldn’t be safe here, but maybe to watch as he tore the world from limb to limb), and asked for the embers, for the flames, for the burning, seething maelstrom of his magic to swirl, to smoke, to fume, to sigh, into the chaos.
Then the invocations didn’t answer.
It was gone, barren, a void, a careless, empty vessel – no fire licking at his veins, no inferno threatening to engulf the soulless channel, and the most wicked laugh poured from his mouth in response (it was all so stupid, so god damned stupid). It’d been one of his father’s gifts, a lineage drawn to Ignatius, from hours, days, months, and years spent in the rush of rapture and reverie, a kiss of antipathy and acrimony, a promise of ruin, of devastation – silenced, just like Orsino, vanished, just like Enyo.
He didn’t have time to mourn its loss either, sweeping it aside in a flurry of absolute rage, so tired of losing everything, so tired of dreaming with naught coming to fruition, so tired of the constant misery, the endless trials. His teeth dragged over the lampreys’ forms and ripped them from his own flesh, his wrath, his contempt, his abhorrence grew and grew, an expansion of rage and barbarity, blistering over his mind – painting an illuminating portrait of misery, of woe, of constant corruption and agony. Then he funneled the savagery deep into his bones, felt the carnivorous blend of broken, beaten miseries, and attempted to launch it at each and every beast devouring his soul – pain for pain, an echo, a chasm, of other beings’ sent to rest into this dominion of damnation.
{While Orsino tries to take some lampreys off of Erebos, Erebos attempts to use his teeth to knock some away. Erebos then tries to use his dark magic on the creatures, hoping to imbed enough pain/torment/agony into them so they’d leave/gtfo. ;D}
Erebos
clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in
@Weaver
