rebirth

Somewhere in the forest's murky heart, a raven croaked. It was deadly silent despite the recent influx of strangers, a tangible stillness settling over the woods like the very mist that wove between the tall bodies of trees. It almost seemed as if life had taken a respite, if not for the errant stars of hungry eyes peering out from the nebula of the luminous underbrush. The raven called out once more, mocking. As if on cue, two rows of white lashes fluttered apart, revealing a dazed violet eye. It blinked away what seemed like centuries of slumber, attempting to focus on the disorientatingly bright blur of neon on black that was this strange wood. The head that bore the eye laid on a bed of brambles, the thorns biting painfully into its slim black cheek. Wisps of mane were spread unceremoniously across the forest floor, tiny neon flowers sprouting almost shyly from between thick, winding threads of moonspun hair. For several moments, the silvery body was inert, save for the rhythmic rise and fall of her sides and the occasional blink of the upturned eye. Then, long, slim limbs flailed and grappled until the body pulled itself onto its belly. Leaves, twigs, dirt, and detritus clung to both mane and skin on the side that had been pressed against the ground. Through glistening nostrils, the creature took a long drag of air, vaguely noting the sickly-sweet smell of decay that permeated the wood. Thingol was the first word that drifted through shambles of her mind. Then: where am I? ""

netzephyr | breathless-dk | burtn | tasil-stock | roontoo

All my life I’ve been searching for something Vexation pulled at his heart and made it fester, made it decay, made it wither inside his chest, broken little shards tugged out of their strings and webs, thrown, tossed into the wind. He was incomplete, another lost soul tattered and frayed, glancing out upon the earth and knowing, understanding, that it had nothing to give him – no promise, no conviction, no oaths, no pledges. Those were all gone now, split apart like Ode’s flesh, like Aithniel’s shadow, like Enyo’s vanished, disregarded trace – and everything he’d ever fought for. The Basin was a lifeline, and it’d been robbed of its beating forces, its potent distinction, its herd, its empire, its futility, and in turn, its forgotten General paid the price by his abandonment. He thought to run and run and run, screaming, tearing, defiling, back into the void and merely see where it would take him, out of sight, out of mind, flailing straight into cruelty or nothingness; either would suffice, the end or the beginning, the genesis or the finality. But words on the horizon were mere echoes of the past, whispering to him, pulsing, pervading forged between his anger and his acrimony, plunging deep, like a knife, like a blade, like a sword, thrust in his rib cage, stuck through and sworn to anguish. You will be better, one said, his father’s deep, resonating speech, the last phrase he’d ever spoken to his son (and know he understood why the Reaper had always appeared so cold, so nonchalant, so reticent, because then nothing and no one could hurt when everything was stripped away). Look forward, a now fallen God had once told him, glancing towards the skyline and not the delusions of history, where their lines bombarded his soul, where they stomped on his Machiavellian distortions until there was naught left but an aching need for retribution on a force that couldn’t be maligned. Believe it, and so will they, Weaver had spoken, but it didn’t matter now, for there was naught left of him and what he used to be (valor, gallantry, the indentation of an impish smile; what had it ever given him but vanished, murdered, scarred friends and misery?). They need you, he thought he heard Orsino, but the kitsune had been eerily quiet, and it could’ve been the cataclysm, the catalyst, of the breeze, of the fog, of the mist playing tricks on his battered skull, casting one more onslaught, one more terror, one more horrific nightmare, stabbing, lacerating whatever was left of his core. And you need them. He’d always tried, but what was there to venture for anymore? We’ll find her, was the answering growl, and it was too optimistic to be Orsino, so he ignored it, stared into the facets of treachery, of danger, and wondered how long it would take to consume him. Erebos was still flesh and blood, still tenacity and cunning, still iron and fire – perhaps simple audacity kept him going, kept his veins pumping, kept his muscles undulating, kept his military machinations alive (contempt, loathing, and despair, mixed and blended and brewed with so much viciousness his body seemed molded from it; savage, nefarious, wicked, wild, daring the world to ruin him one last damned time). They walked and ambled, looking for pieces, for signs, of a griffin’s wing or the familiar click of a fledgling’s beak, but the shadows clung to his eyes and all he could remember was disaster, the cloak of bedlam, the infernal unknown gasping, grasping, taking them all into oblivion (it could only be hell here). “Enyo,” he whispered into the dark, hoping his voice didn’t carry the weight of his melancholy, that the reverberations, the murmurs, didn’t inform the world of his unraveling fringes. His stare flickered into the void, into the abyss, into the Stygian empire and its fervent mist, then caught ivory. The prince’s head swung quickly, rapidly, swiftly, a predator’s carnivorous notion, and his stare followed the line of white wings, pale, alabaster, ones he hadn’t seen in so long that disbelief suddenly melded into his core – he shook his cranium, the crown fallen, misshapen, crooked, believed it an error, a trick, a play to make him truly split into miniscule pieces. It couldn’t be, he assured himself, the way all beaten, destroyed things have a way of vowing and aligning, protecting whatever small hopes they had left – because she was gone too, like his mother, like his father, like Ode, and he was the only one remaining, stark and desolate, restless, weary, and shattered. It cawed though, and he kept his piercing stare on its fluttering plumage and haunting, poignant hues (wanting to ask why something else had been sent her to mock him, to tease him, to consume him), watching another form shift below it, through the haze, through the fog. Then he saw flowers, faded, and remembered so many things (silver lines and hidden skulls, ringing laughter, like bells and satin, teasing, taunting, and pride, Huyana’s gentle voice and devilish delight to match them; ghosts, all of them, veiled, shrouded wraiths plaguing at his soul). “Loth?” He murmured into the void, almost inaudible, because hope hastened to his chest, bright and wicked, and he couldn’t, he couldn’t, crumble again. (something never comes) erebos never leads to nothing—nothing satisfies but I’m getting close

image | coding
@Lothíriel

If Lothíriel knew anything about this queer wood, it was that she was not alone. This fact was confirmed when she saw the twin pinpricks of eyes watching her from every which direction. Their presence felt sinister, even malicious; perhaps they were waiting to see if she was weak enough to pick off. Summoning up whatever strength she could gather, the roan maiden scrambled to her cleft feet. She stood there for what seemed like hours, although in truth it was only for the span of several heartbeats, contemplating whether it was wiser to stay in place or to run. Her dark ears flicked back and forth uneasily as she canvassed her surroundings, noting that even the flora in this wood was alien; strangling vines climbed up the length of great trees whose leaves came in colors too vibrant and brilliant to be normal. Even the little blooms that continued to push through the undergrowth around her were of foreign shapes and colors; usually, Lothíriel could give names to each and every flower that grew beneath her hooves, but now she failed to recognize any of them. Something stirred in the darkness deep inside the woods, and the lilac girl found herself quivering from fright—somewhere in the distance, she heard a passing disturbance agitating the still night air, almost like a whisper, although she could not make out the words, or if there were any words spoken at all. When she attempted to grasp the filaments that linked her very soul to Thingol, the girl was startled to find that they had been weakened, as if a knife had pared down the satin ropes of their bond until only a single thread remained. Despite herself, tears welled unbidden on the rims of her eyes, threatening to spill over the threshold of her eyelashes. Never had she felt so alone, even after her mother disappeared. For a moment, Lothíriel allowed to think about the family she had lost—Mother, Father, Erebos. They had been happy once, but that was long ago in what seemed like an entirely different world, an entirely different lifetime. As if testing the bounds of her loneliness, she heard the timbre of an achingly familiar voice, although its inflections were more masculine, more grown, than she had ever remembered. Dark ears pricked forwards, desperately attempting to catch its dying melody. Loth. Lothíriel's eyes narrowed in suspicion—was this some siren the wood had summoned from the last vestiges of her memory, seeking to lure her towards an untimely death? She was silent for a moment, straining to hear something that could confirm her fears. However, the roan girl could not deny her heart its fragile hopes, and anyway, if the forest wanted to claim her soul so badly, it would do so anyway. "Ere—" she started, almost startled by the sound of her own voice. Gathering up whatever courage she had left, the maiden began again: "Erebos? Is that you?" She stepped forward blindly into the darkness, painfully aware of how vulnerable she was. The forest was not completely bereft of light, although whatever starlight filtered down from the canopy was corrupted and sinister, feeding the shadows instead of driving them away. The thrum of her swallow's heart rattled against her sternum as her slim dark legs moved forwards. Was it a mistake to pursue this specter? And then she saw him. He was far from what she remembered of her baby brother, her accomplice, her partner in a hundred small crimes; he was a man grown now, the familiar bruised tones of his pelt—black and blue—enveloping a warrior's body, as finely honed as a sword's edge. The lilac girl stopped dead in her tracks several lengths away from him, blinking hard. Her velvet nose reached towards him, half convinced that he would burst into smoke if she touched him.

netzephyr | breathless-dk | burtn | tasil-stock | roontoo

@Erebos

A great spear of lighting splits the cloud-laden skies; and to cuts through the heavy blue-grey clouds, sending a sudden downpour onto the thick growth beneath —and onto any unfortunate creatures in the humid, murky forest.

The inevitable clap of thunder waited for a few moments, as if taunting the very air. And when it came, it was deafening. Even the neon glows all around dimmed slightly in the wake of such a tremendous roar from the skies.

…but not for long. The eerie lights were soon crowding upon the newcomer, hunger never sated.

the Rift

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[TRANSFER NOTES : LOTHÍRIEL ]

Magic:
Crafting: Flowers grow in hair and steps. When stopped, they spread from her hooves. Flowers have normal lifespan.
Offensive: Ability to lull others into a impressionable trance with song. Is left with severely throat after using magic.

Amulets:
FOUR! Four whole drops of godsblood that the shadows pull from you; in their greedy wake is a light-sucking flower marking whose vines will slowly spread to cover your entire side.

Companion:
Thingol : Raven
OOC Obtained: 27 February 2014
Rift Birthdate: Late Freeze 1169

All my life I’ve been searching for something They should’ve seared at the edges of the incoming storm, but they were creatures made from death and rain, and surely felt no fear at the stroke of lightning or the finality of thunder (the youth was certain). They were crackling, blistering, scorching something finer, something greater, than any deluge, than any port, than any bestial machinations – born to warriors and poets, born to peacekeepers and Reapers, born to legions of decadence and grandeur. They’d be raised to defy. Sometimes, it was all he knew. Erebos was the rubble of revolution, the tower threatening to topple over, to fall apart if one more stone plummeted to the ground, if one more inferno emblazoned his soul – but to look at her again, it was as if he’d been reanimated, revitalized, reincarnated, a blue phoenix rising from his malicious ashes. Amidst the downpour, where the sparks crackled against the skull resting along his withers, where the cascade threatened to drown them both in the wake of anarchy (and any other time he’d welcome it, he’d challenge it, he’d become enticed, enthralled by the notion of destruction), he smiled. It was piece of indulgence he hadn’t used in what felt like lifetimes – beautiful and brilliant and a piece of seraphic art, sculpted by artisans of immorality and intrigue, knowing where to highlight the warrior edges and the impish brushstrokes. It can’t be, he dreamed at first, because his life had gone in downward spirals and hellhole hinges, feasted upon in savage streams of insurrection and sedition, one event after another until he’d landed here and been made a fool again. But she was alive, whole, unchanged, and unaltered from the last time he’d seen her (waves of satin flowers and blossoms; his father’s pride and his mother’s rapture) – it was like glimpsing into a time piece, glass sheered to show the past before it unraveled, before it corrupted, before lives perished and things were destroyed. “Yes,” he uttered, choking down a threat of tears, because he was stronger than that, but the emotions were overwhelming, and he’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be happy, ecstatic, buoyant, a joyful puff of air instead of a constant, brooding, brewing overture. He ignored the irreverence dampening his soul – and relished the moment for what it was, for what it could be, for the elation that had long since disappeared from his life – reaching forward, meeting her halfway, extending his muzzle until it reached hers and they shared the same space, the same time, the same segments. When this couldn’t contain the warrior, when he craved more, for he’d always been greedy, always been avaricious, wanting and wanting and wanting until the world reminded him to stop (then took), he curled his skull over her shoulder, over her withers, bringing her closer, towards his chest, towards his heart, hoping her presence would somehow mend and tie it back together. The once-boy was taller than her now, but he barely noticed, pressing towards her, smiling, grinning like a fool, like he’d been given life and light again. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said, he whispered, he murmured into the storm, as if the realm would hear and soon take away his exhilaration, and all he had was this moment to fathom, to embrace, to enjoy it. The General grew a bit more hushed, pondering over the lengths it had taken for her to arrive here, and not in Helovia, not in the Basin, not in the wild, incandescent, savage world alive with ice and color; before he distorted it into a quiet, momentous whisper, refusing to let go (of her, of his curiosity, of the way things had to be; crimes and silliness, merriment and mischief). “Where have you been?” (something never comes) erebos never leads to nothing—nothing satisfies but I’m getting close

image | coding
@Lothíriel

Slender fingers of lightning split the abysmal sky asunder, illuminating the forest and all the creatures that dwelled in it. For a moment, she could see her brother with more clarity: he was taller than her, with blue eyes were unmistakably the Reaper's, although the tender lines of his face recalled their mother. Although she had been cautious at first, the ghost of a smile pulled at the corners of her lips when she realized that this was no phantasm nor was it some cruel machination of a malevolent forest, but it was indeed Erebos in the flesh. She felt the soft skin of his nose against her's, an overwhelmingly familiar sensation that caused tears to roll down her slender cheeks. Her eyes closed against the water, and she pressed hard against his embrace. For a moment, Lothíriel felt safe in this alien place, entwined with her not-so-little brother—together they could weather this forest. The flower girl noted how broad his chest had become and how fit he was—no doubt he had been training with their father. Of course he would follow in their father's tracks; she expected no less from a being forged from roaring waters and the imminence of death (but what did that make her?). I'm so glad you're here, he whispered into their shared space; she did not even notice the sudden downpour, nor the lights dotting the wood, drawing closer as if attracted to the warmth of their shared blood. "Me too," she murmured, relieving the terrible weight of her head onto his back. Since when had she become so tired? Hadn't she only just woken up? Silent seconds ticked by, marked only by the too-bright flash of lighting and the insistent drum of angry raindrops. The entire forest seemed to protest their presence, biding the strangers to go away, but she did not care: Erebos was next to her, and that's all that mattered. He asked her where she had been, and the muscle and sinew of her neck tensed. With willful idleness, the nymph righted a piece of her brother's mane where it had lain the wrong way, flattening it onto the other side of his crest. "Here and there," she said stiffly, muzzle hovering over his withers. After a few moments, Lothíriel released the breath that she had held so tightly in her belly, exposing sadness and grief. She withdrew from their embrace, shame laying a heavy curtain over the fine bones of her face. "I lost her," the roan girl admitted, almost whispering, looking away so that Erebos would not see the angry tears welling in her eyes, "Mother is gone." Her voice quavered in a way that it rarely did. The forest seemed to feel her grief; another bolt of lighting fractured the dark sky, illuminating the two lonely beings. She sighed heavily, turning her gaze towards his face, weighing his expression. Rain ran down her body in rivulets, the silver of her body turned pewter. Perhaps it was best to turn their reunion to a happier note—or at least one that was not as heavy. "How did you get here? Where are we?" She paused, looking around them, searching for some other suggestion of life in the sinister wood. "Where is Father? Or anyone else for that matter?"

netzephyr | breathless-dk | burtn | tasil-stock | roontoo

@Erebos

Erebos

Ebullience was somehow always short-lived, no matter the time, no matter the place. The past, circumstances, and events couldn’t be erased, and he would’ve loved to try, to forget anything and everything, but then he wouldn’t be who he was, and it wouldn’t be fair, it wouldn’t be right (not when he was a pinnacle of justice, not when he was the patron saint of vengeance). The alterations had never been neat and tidy. The changes had never been careful or concise. Pieces and fragments, junctures and gestures, empires and family had fallen apart while she’d been away, and no matter the joyous reunion beating its mighty crescendo amidst his sometimes valorous, sometimes wicked heart, he couldn’t allow the folly, the ignorance, befall her any longer. But before he had a chance to say anything, to speak of the depths of desecration warring over their dissolute house (how there was nothing now, not really, just him and her, the wind and the rain, the all-too brief moments of memories others had of the Reaper, and the shorter segments of Huyana, beautiful and sublime), her voice kindled through the murk, through the mist, through the storm – and he nearly slipped away from her right then and there. Mother is gone was a sudden weight in his chest – he’d known it for some time, for some months, when disappearances just lasted too long and his father kept looking into lakes, into the rain, hoping to see her in the flesh, materialize in front of them all with her invocations and enchantments, with her gentle, tranquil nature – but the finality of it coiled through his core. It nested there, vicious and infernal, gathered once into cold, prying hands and grasping, gnarled claws, reminding him of legacies, of promises, of oaths gone or resting, brewing inside him with enough ferocity that he thought he might choke, he might sob, he might quake and shudder. Instead, he was like a bastion, a blackguard, a heinous figure, leaning into her so he didn’t falter, stumble, flicker apart (I lost her; a vile contortion within him wanted to shout at her – how could she just lose her? – but another sliver of his being knew better, and hung his head when she escaped his embrace).
 
The prince didn’t look at the princess then – head down, eyes buried in the sodden lengths of fog and puddles, waiting to see which one drowned first, waiting to see when he’d finally slip away, back into desolation, back into nonchalance, back into fury. Orsino stood nearby, a piece of the Stygian background, silent and muted while his master, while his bonded, stood there in all his soulless glory like a torn banner; without his daggers, without his knives, without his empire to recall, to reignite. Erebos’ stare only followed her movements and motions when the questions began, when the clatter of her words ran over his frame, an endless bout of questions that felt like swords stuck into his chest. The piercing, penetrating wake of his gaze stayed entirely on her, pushed down the rancor, the eldritch upheaval hastening amidst his soul, flailed from the tears threatening to break and flicker down his cheeks – his voice was strong and enduring while the rest of him faded into mere shards, splinters, and slivers. “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,” he said first, and he believed her, believed in her, that she wouldn’t have allowed their mother to be lost willingly, to be scattered amidst the ashes and stars (and maybe, just maybe, she was with their father again, scattering her warmth into his reticence). Then, there was naught else he could do but utter the truth, fix his resolutions into her frame, into her heart, bite and gnaw at the chains hastening to his feet; tethered there, in the same time, in the same place, haunted, miserable, forlorn in the constant, ongoing perils. “Helovia is gone. The Gods are gone.” He shook his head, breathed, inhaled, clung to so many things, the rubble, the ruin, the disaster spread through his blood. “There was a battle, and Kaos won. The only chance we had of survival was to go through this portal, which led us here.” Whatever here happened to be – but it was no Basin, no home, no icy chambers, no illustrious caverns, no metal Sentinels guarding their way. He released one more shaky breath, stepped closer to her, reached out for a lifeline that was no longer there, pushing against the tide, blinking away renegade tears. “Father died at the beginning of Birdsong. I had him entombed in the mountains.” But it didn’t matter now because they couldn’t go, they couldn’t see him, they couldn’t do anything and he couldn’t ask for forgiveness any longer (and the whole entire truth made him want to suffocate, made him want to crumble, made him want to ignite into the biggest inferno the world had ever seen). “But we can’t go there anymore, because there’s nothing left.” And while he spelled out veracity with such an unrelenting edge, he allowed one more beacon of hope to flicker apart, have its demise in the pouring rain. “Ode was killed in the battle.”
 
Every edge stung and set him ablaze. He stood in the gallows and wondered when it would send him swinging too, when his nightmares would merely become further reality. The few fringes of hope nestled in his mouth, rolled from his tongue, but he wasn’t sure they’d have any meaning, not anymore. “A lot of us still made it through – Rikyn, Lena, Glacia, Tiamat…some of you’ve never met. But we’re all scattered. There’s nowhere to go.”
 
Lord, it all sounded like he’d just given in – but the boy, the prince, the scion, the warrior, the General, the son of the Reaper was so much more than that – and despite the finality, the rough course of candor, he remained, chiseled and sculpted for foreboding battles. Was Loth (because he wanted her right there, at his side, rampaging amidst demons and infidels, cretins and heathens, one of the last remaining gifts granted by a Reaper and his muse)?

I'LL SHOW YOU HOW GOD | FALLS ASLEEP ON THE JOB
Image Credits

@Lothíriel

From beneath a shameful veil of white lashes, Lothíriel observed her brother processing the declaration she had made; shades of sadness made his black face blue, and his eyes, ever like twin lapis, avoided her gaze. Would he curse her name, cast her away? she wondered—grief had a strange way of conjuring djins and ghosts from the saintliest of individuals. If he did, she wouldn't have blamed him, but before her mind could conjure any more strangling machinations, however, Erebos favored her with a statement that made the silk noose of guilt grasp ever tighter around her throat. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, the silver nymph held her tongue, silencing the words her heart desperately wanted to say for the sake of familial peace. It had been a dark day the last time she had seen their mother, in a scene not unlike the one they inhabited presently. Perhaps there was a kernel of truth in Erebos' words (I'm sure it wasn't your fault), but when you could have done something to prevent the loss of a loved one and you don't, doesn't the blame shift to your own laden shoulders? If Lothíriel had learned anything about life, it was that homecomings and reunions were always shortlived. As if happiness were sand running through her fingers, every portent Erebos brought her caused another grain to scatter in the wind. Her florid eyes watched him intently as he delivered every statement, widening with horror as the next one was revealed. "Gods," she swore, wondering if it was blasphemy if they were dead. Rain continued pattering against their blue bodies, droplets rolling down fur darkened with water. Despite a sense of foreboding which crept into the very fluid in her spine, the nymphet continued listening to her brother, dread weighting her heart like so many golden coins on an avaricious scale. He moved closer to her, looking ever more distraught—Lothíriel could see her own reflection staring back at her in the pools of his eyes. Something seized in the pit of her stomach; she knew what he was going to say before he said it. For a moment, she stood in absolute silence, standing so still it seemed as if every atom that composed her halted its respective vibrations. Finally after what seemed like eons, she moved despite the numbness that stiffened her muscles, pressing herself against her brother's reassuringly warm body. At least he was alive—she could feel his heart beating relentlessly as if daring fate, pumping the blue blood they shared. Were they the very last ones of their line? With mother and father gone, as well as their cousin Ode, they had no other family but themselves. "May he rest in peace," shemurmured, looking out into the foreboding darkness of the wood. She didn't even cry; the rain did it for her, grieving with more tears that she could ever hope to produce. Was this what emptiness felt like? The lilac girl just felt like a hollow vessel only meant to be filled with rainwater, counting every droplet as another hope dashed, another dream dissolved into the vast ocean of life. Their father, the Reaper, the sentinel of her girlhood, the king of her heart—dead. The concept felt so surreal, so wrong; it all felt like some neverending bad dream. Would anyone ever care to wake her? Erebos informed her of the ones who survived, and the wings of hope fluttered feebly in her chest. Rikyn—she remembered the charming boy fondly; his bravado had impressed her then, when she was still half-grown and more prone to the whims and fancies of maidens. How is he now? she wonders, trying to imagine his boyish smirk on a man's face. The others she did not know as well, but the memory of their faces made her braver, if a little. "Do you know anything about this place?" she inquired, the note of hope in her voice sounding ugly and contrived, falling flat against the desperate sadness she felt. Perhaps they could build a home from the ashes of their dead home. If Lothíriel knew anything, it was that they had to go on and forge new lives in this strange place; they owed as much to their lord father and his rain nymph.

netzephyr | breathless-dk | burtn | tasil-stock | roontoo

@Erebos
here have this ugly 10PM post :|

Erebos

He had nothing left for her – just listened to her oaths, to her proclamations, to her declarations, the little blue boy lost amidst the world again. Every tender glint of warmth, of hope, had been drained out of him from his last speech, raw, savage, fettered, and he was burning at both ends, a flame cast into the gloom only to return just as nefarious as he’d been when he left. In some ways, he was gone too, no longer the bright star blazing across the horizon, no longer the silly scion with charismatic grins and avaricious eyes – he’d already sunk far too low, and the pieces of his past were mere pretenses now, follies for everyone else to see, while he wrestled and entangled with other monsters, with other cretins. The tides had taken him out to sea and left him there, pushed against the sides of cliffs, the rocky shore; he had the scars to prove it, every last one of them beating upon his chest or his shoulders, in the dark length of his stare, in the piercing, penetrating way he stood amidst the fog, the mist, the abyss, like he’d soon be consumed by it (and not care; simply not care at all). A part of him had died with his father, with his mother, with the Basin – and he existed simply to defy the rest of the world, to carry on his vengeance, to see his sword slip through enemies. It was enough, for now, to settle over the void with hate on his shoulders and menace in his heart; it saw him through the wicked vitriol, the toxic acrimony, the pulsing, pervading ghosts dashing along specious routes. He couldn’t give her the hope she craved though, the smallest gesture of optimism in the strange, unyielding sovereign; there were no holy kingdoms, no empires made of ice, no lands to claim, maintain, and defend – no union but the ones of prior bonds, either through blood or camaraderie, comrades in arms all struggling to survive in misery. “It takes,” was all he could convey – because the Rift snagged and crawled, stole and abolished, ensnared, captivated, then consumed, swallowed, every token breath of expectancy, of blossoming dreams, of whimsical aspirations. The warrior didn’t tell her about his lost companion, out in the middle of nowhere, or how some of his magic (the one that resembled his father’s the most; the fire, the embers, the brimstone) had simply vanished, gone back into the damnation. He didn’t tell her how he planned to snag it all back through cunning and treachery, through wicked, condemning means, through dastardly, bestial ways.

So he granted her the only thing he could – and that was his faith, his trust, his steadfast, stalwart essence, still there, buried under all the armor, the hate, the contempt, the conspiring. “Come with me,” he spoke, gaze tender, riddled and mired in too many other conflicting emotions. It wasn’t a command or demand, but driven from his heart, from his soul, from those accursed sentiments wrought along his iron-forged entity. Erebos didn’t have a direction, didn’t have a home, didn’t have anything but his ideals, his creeds, his oaths, his might, and his list of audacious persistences, but perhaps it’d be enough. They could torch the world together, and it’d be a beautiful, unwinding blaze made from death, from rain, from everything they should’ve been from the beginning. A smile started on his lips, stranded out in the open, resting on the hope he should’ve have strived for, shouldn’t have craved; because he knew what this world was like (and dared anyway).

I'LL SHOW YOU HOW GOD | FALLS ASLEEP ON THE JOB
Image Credits

@Lothíriel