Hraunor
07-28-2018, 02:12 PM
He hated how she stopped him dead in his tracks.
He hated how she laughed at him, as if the power he wielded did not frighten her—as if the power he wielded couldn't hurt her.
He wanted to show her how wrong she was. He wanted to show her what four wronged, furious gods were capable of. He wanted her to pay the price for her transgressions in blood and pain.
He wanted to cut her to the bone, to feel her hot blood sizzle against his midnight skin. He wanted to break her open.
But she had him. She had his curiosity, his dread. And somewhere, deep down in him, four dead Gods raised their heads, as if scenting the wind.
Kisamoa licked his lips when she turned her back to lead the way. He said nothing, nor did he immediately follow; instead, he watched the distant glow of lava, the curve of Hope's back, the anxious shimmying of her hopelights. Perhaps she seemed cool and composed, but the lights dancing in her antlers gave her away. Judging by her demeanor, he thought it was excitement.
She was up to something, and he did not like it—but he followed her all the same, down into a cave system near the roiling pit of Hraunor.
Once within, Hope sort of shouldered him a little to the side while saying what was on her mind. He didn't even notice, or didn't think about it, too busy trying to fight down the entities he was made of; too busy trying to retain his hold on his body.
"Find them?" he got out in a guttural snarl, wondering if she had, in her brief time awake, failed to comprehend that he was the Gods. He was not simply their tool, their means to the destruction of another world: he was their flesh, their blood, their hearts, their spirits. “You are scared,” she said.
But they weren't. And after all, he was them, and they were him, and they spoke through the misshapen mouth of the one who had learned to love being alive.
"We're right here," they said.
He hated how she laughed at him, as if the power he wielded did not frighten her—as if the power he wielded couldn't hurt her.
He wanted to show her how wrong she was. He wanted to show her what four wronged, furious gods were capable of. He wanted her to pay the price for her transgressions in blood and pain.
He wanted to cut her to the bone, to feel her hot blood sizzle against his midnight skin. He wanted to break her open.
But she had him. She had his curiosity, his dread. And somewhere, deep down in him, four dead Gods raised their heads, as if scenting the wind.
Kisamoa licked his lips when she turned her back to lead the way. He said nothing, nor did he immediately follow; instead, he watched the distant glow of lava, the curve of Hope's back, the anxious shimmying of her hopelights. Perhaps she seemed cool and composed, but the lights dancing in her antlers gave her away. Judging by her demeanor, he thought it was excitement.
She was up to something, and he did not like it—but he followed her all the same, down into a cave system near the roiling pit of Hraunor.
Once within, Hope sort of shouldered him a little to the side while saying what was on her mind. He didn't even notice, or didn't think about it, too busy trying to fight down the entities he was made of; too busy trying to retain his hold on his body.
"Find them?" he got out in a guttural snarl, wondering if she had, in her brief time awake, failed to comprehend that he was the Gods. He was not simply their tool, their means to the destruction of another world: he was their flesh, their blood, their hearts, their spirits. “You are scared,” she said.
But they weren't. And after all, he was them, and they were him, and they spoke through the misshapen mouth of the one who had learned to love being alive.
"We're right here," they said.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
