Rainforest Cliffs
08-27-2017, 03:36 PM
He was, he decided, not going to be offended by honesty. Now, had it been said with vehemence, with a lust for vengeance running hot beneath her skin, with a complete denial of ever considering things from his aspect—why, yes, he might've decided to take offense. It made them mere beasts and brutes, and no better than he, which they believed themselves as they paraded around clad in their self-righteous anger.
Kisamoa let the rain remind him of who he was, call him back to his aching body. With his memory spanning eons, the deaths of a few mere mortals (and a handful of immortals) were inconsequential, for their lives would've burned bright and brief anyway, but the realization that he wasn't dealing with eons anymore was still jarring.
He didn't have eons to fix this, and that was why he dabbled in regret.
"Interesting," the creature said when she struggled to express herself, to somehow unsay what she had said. He found it sweet, but unnecessary—he was not childish enough to fly into a tantrum simply because she stated something he, regrettably, admitted as truth. But what he did find interesting, was that she had sought to soothe him in the first place. Had he somehow expressed some kind of remorse, doubt, with his words? They had been honest, yes, and they had been born in fear of what time might do, but.. she had been trying to make him feel better. A slow, gruesome smile curved his lips. "Thank you."
Her father had erred too, it seemed, and like him, had set his cursed feet on the path to redemption. No matter how brief the time Castiella had had with her sire, it seemed he had left an impact on her, and he found himself strangely relieved he had not been the one to kill the stallion. If he had been, would she still have helped him? "Perhaps you will," he said quietly. It sounded like premonition coming from him, but maybe he was just alluding to the fact that he brushed death on all planes quite often. Maybe he knew something about death and reunions beyond the grave—maybe he didn't.
"Except you are my god, and I am your loyal servant." Now, see, he was never sure what he thought of his own godhood—the deities he were sprung from were not gods, although they wielded enough power to be regarded as such. And he, he was just the remnants of them, but did that make him a god? Some thought so. Some days, he thought so. At other times, he thought that, no, he was made from gods but he wasn't one. And other days, his mind screamed for power and vengeance and pointless things, of enslavement and feasting on force and blood and minds, of devouring until He was the Only Thing to matter in the whole of the universe.
Did he like the idea of having servants? Or did he consider it sort of embarrassing, maybe even a bit uncomfortable? When he gazed at Castiella, did he see a misguided filly he wanted to protect from an even more misguided world, or simply a tool to hone and sharpen?
"Your god," he replied softly, wondering if she would begin to think him dense for his repetitions, his quiet voice, soft, short words. He pressed his jaws together for a moment, teeth pricking his gums in places. He grinned, tentatively. "Your god needs another corpse." The bones, carefully laid out, lifted by some spectral force, hovered next to him and folded into his flesh. "Come on, my little bird." Without further ado, he turned from the dead Pistris, and began to stride towards the steep Cliffs, clearly intending to scale them and head into the forest beyond.
[ @Castiella ]
Kisamoa let the rain remind him of who he was, call him back to his aching body. With his memory spanning eons, the deaths of a few mere mortals (and a handful of immortals) were inconsequential, for their lives would've burned bright and brief anyway, but the realization that he wasn't dealing with eons anymore was still jarring.
He didn't have eons to fix this, and that was why he dabbled in regret.
"Interesting," the creature said when she struggled to express herself, to somehow unsay what she had said. He found it sweet, but unnecessary—he was not childish enough to fly into a tantrum simply because she stated something he, regrettably, admitted as truth. But what he did find interesting, was that she had sought to soothe him in the first place. Had he somehow expressed some kind of remorse, doubt, with his words? They had been honest, yes, and they had been born in fear of what time might do, but.. she had been trying to make him feel better. A slow, gruesome smile curved his lips. "Thank you."
Her father had erred too, it seemed, and like him, had set his cursed feet on the path to redemption. No matter how brief the time Castiella had had with her sire, it seemed he had left an impact on her, and he found himself strangely relieved he had not been the one to kill the stallion. If he had been, would she still have helped him? "Perhaps you will," he said quietly. It sounded like premonition coming from him, but maybe he was just alluding to the fact that he brushed death on all planes quite often. Maybe he knew something about death and reunions beyond the grave—maybe he didn't.
"Except you are my god, and I am your loyal servant." Now, see, he was never sure what he thought of his own godhood—the deities he were sprung from were not gods, although they wielded enough power to be regarded as such. And he, he was just the remnants of them, but did that make him a god? Some thought so. Some days, he thought so. At other times, he thought that, no, he was made from gods but he wasn't one. And other days, his mind screamed for power and vengeance and pointless things, of enslavement and feasting on force and blood and minds, of devouring until He was the Only Thing to matter in the whole of the universe.
Did he like the idea of having servants? Or did he consider it sort of embarrassing, maybe even a bit uncomfortable? When he gazed at Castiella, did he see a misguided filly he wanted to protect from an even more misguided world, or simply a tool to hone and sharpen?
"Your god," he replied softly, wondering if she would begin to think him dense for his repetitions, his quiet voice, soft, short words. He pressed his jaws together for a moment, teeth pricking his gums in places. He grinned, tentatively. "Your god needs another corpse." The bones, carefully laid out, lifted by some spectral force, hovered next to him and folded into his flesh. "Come on, my little bird." Without further ado, he turned from the dead Pistris, and began to stride towards the steep Cliffs, clearly intending to scale them and head into the forest beyond.
[ @Castiella ]
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
