He walks with remarkably care towards the east, leaving the Portal behind him and with it, his petulant, vacuous son. What the boy is left with after their encounter, he cares not; Abigor could have died beneath his hooves for all he cared, a crumpled mess lying in his own lifeblood. Perhaps doing so would’ve been a favor to the boy, to spare him the pain that life so often burdened its inhabitants with, a pain that the brindle had once been so very familiar with. But now, the walls of his mind have been fortified, standing tall and strong against all it has endured. What lies ahead, both physically and metaphorically, he doesn’t know, but cloven hooves trudge fearlessly onward.
Standing atop his rump is the young caracal that the brindle has reverently dubbed Freya after his mother, but if one should ask, he would never dare to tell. Already Crowley is much more fond of the kit than Talbot; she’s brave, if not a bit reckless in her ventures that have thus been short and rather uneventful. Once she surpasses adolescence, he can only imagine the things she might be capable of, even if it won’t be for quite some time yet. She’s fascinated by her own mobility and continues to struggle putting her feet in the right place at times, but what captures the young feline’s curiosity even more is just how fast she seems to be able to go and everything she can see when standing atop him, so long as his movement is precise, calculated and, admittedly, a bit slower than he would like to go.
But that’s alright – he already loves the feline so.
Up ahead, the darkness grows thicker than he’s seen yet. He slows in his pace and looks on through narrowed eyes, straining to see what’s up ahead and listen to the faint whispers that mesh with the ones that have followed him for years, though he fails to decipher them. Unafraid he may be, but Crowley isn’t a fool to think that there are no stronger beings than himself, that he’s somehow impervious to harm. For a moment it seems that he’s alone until he steps boldly further, and that’s when he catches his eye; the one responsible for everything that had happened, the murderer of families, the destroyer of homes, the squanderer of hope.
But Crowley has none of those things, not anymore, and so he does not judge.
Silently he watches the ever-changing deity, or demon, whatever he was truly meant to be stride forward, seemingly chasing away the perpetual shadows that clung to the land with an iron fist. The brindle steps slowly after him at first, golden eyes wide with bewilderment at the sight he’s just beheld. With a shake of his head he breaks the trance and quickens his pace, trailing behind the God at a distance. He stops and speaks a warning to he and any who might have followed after him, but Crowley’s attention is solely on that of the God and the tasks he seems so intent on carrying out.
Coming to a halt at the edge of the river bank, Crowley lowers his head to inspect the lighted bones closer, cautious not to draw any nearer and mindful the location of the bones. He’s tasted the power of a God once before, and he cares not to again. Freya comes bumbling down the length of his back and intends to halt at his withers, but the clumsy kitten instead falls halfway down his neck. She barely manages to catch herself in a tangle of his mane, but by then the stallion is stepping back, assuring that she doesn’t go tumbling into the river to suffer unknown consequences.
Lifting his gaze to meet and hold that of the God’s, if he allows such an opportunity, Crowley speaks the burning curiosity nagging in the back of his mind, and surely those around them as well.
“… And what happens if we do?”
"Speech"
Crowley & Talbot
oh lord won’t you save me
save me from myself
oh lord won’t you forgive me
for I have lost control
|
Scint River
