Daughter of Stinkbutt

E R E B O S There was tension riddling, crackling, infusing the air, conspiring, twisting, contorting it so the makeshift patterns of his regal essence burned, simmered, against his skin. His brow arched at her silence, body still, rigid, composed for battle when it should’ve been aligned for only gallantry and knightly chains, expecting something like acrimony in the face of malice, in the carnivorous wake of madness. Perhaps she failed to remember him, and this sojourn had been for nothing – another one who didn’t want to bother with his bestial creation (his ineptitude, his stupidity, his idiocy). Maybe the Rift had already taken its shots with her, poured out all the memories, all the justification, and left only her core behind – a shell, a vessel, of what was once Rhiannon (and already he wanted to fight that insipid notion, grind his jaw, tell her to battle, to wage war against the inhumane, ridiculous world carved out before them).   Then, just as quickly, she murmured his name and the acrimonious vibe departed; her frame relaxed, and so did his – muscles no longer seething, no longer eager, fervent, ready to chase down the puissance pulsing through his veins. But she wasn’t all right. None of them were, truly. They’d all been flung into the gates of hell and asked to learn about it, court it, funnel and burrow their way through the darkest tunnels, beg and plead for their lives, remember why they’d been called down into the throngs, into the dungeons, and act like they should be grateful for it. He’d wanted to yell and scream and bellow so many unholy things into this damned void – but he’d bended and blended into it instead, a maneuvering blade, a Machiavellian cutlass, biding, awaiting, the time he and his fellow conspirators could strike. It could take eons, it could take lifetimes; he was patient, he was composed, he was controlled, longing, yearning, relishing in the day where his knife could slide through Kisamoa’s neck. Rhiannon was lost, stuck into the chasm like the rest of them, but at the very least, she wasn’t alone. “We all are,” he spoke, clear and kind, a compassionate glint in his piercing eyes, placing valor before the savagery, comfort before the nefariousness. Then the prince glanced back into the shadows, stare tracing over their foundations, the eerie, eldritch sway of asp-like mist, curtains of Stygian angles and Tartarean guile. It festered and bled over the scenery, wretched and distinct, and he wanted to do away with all of it (find Enyo, find Enna, find everyone else and destroy everything in his path).   She asked about others, and his skull turned back to her, a small smile beckoning over his lips, because he could afford her some solace with this particular venue of knowledge. “Yes,” the youth answered at first, a bit of a tease, a ruse, stuck along his eyes, impish and light, before starting again, granting her more than just the bare minimum, struggling to laugh in a world of belligerence and the treacherous unknown. “Most of us arrived together – Rikyn, Weaver, Oizys, Gwyn, Mortuus Nox, Glacia, Wessex, Tiamat, Lena…,” he trailed off, reciting their names like poetry, like stanzas, for they’d been the life force of the Basin, and would be again. “There may have been others who came later. I’ve been trying to catch any stragglers,” and his grin appeared once more, a little more rogue, a little more ruffian, a little more saddened, disheartened, by the plight they faced every second of every infernal day. “Is there someone you’re looking for in particular?” Erebos understood, comprehended, the meaning of losing - a soul, a friend, a loved one – and proffered guidance to his comrades when he could. “I can help, if you’d like.” nothing satisfies but I'm getting close

image credits
@Rhiannon