Riptide Isles
07-17-2017, 05:33 PM
Poised like Poseidon from another time, another place, when the great valleys yawned and no one felt the tremor, when the echoing tides didn’t promise devastation, he stood on top of the waves and pondered. It was as if the Riptide had been pulled right along with them, down into the bowels of hell, into Stygian pursuits and revelations; given life and treachery like everything else in their disturbing, hollowed sphere. The vortex, the gaping, giant maw proffered other promises, and the temptation echoed through his soul, through his mind, through his broken, barely beating heart – because he could race to it, end everything now, launch straight into its devouring mouth and no one would know, no one would care, no one would be the wiser – just another infidel, another fool gone, gone, gone into the midst. It was an enticing proposition after everything, death, death, and more death, the Basin plunging into darkness without its time, without its spark, without its empire, his father forever gone from his reach (because at least he’d been stone, he’d been rubble, he’d been there, right beyond the marble of his tomb, and he could’ve rested his head against its surface and pretended every word he said was heard), and Enyo vanishing into the air. Barbaric and twisted, he stood there amidst the rolling, petulant hold, a titan, a shell, all the potential in the world and not enough willpower to do anything but splinter, fracture, and drift away on the current. He could hear Orsino spitting, hissing, along the shoreline, trying to get him to come back, to rest along the dunes and they could try to find her again, just give one more try, but the eldritch cyclone along the sea continued to ripple through his eyes. He was a storm, and another could eat him too – swallowed into his chosen gallows before the earth had one more opportunity to destroy him. He had nothing left to give.
So he walked and he walked, traced the shoreline with his hooves, with his daggers, with his cutlasses and knives, wondering how far he could go before everything ended and naught existed – no pain, no torment, no loss – but Orsino just kept calling and calling, an echo, a throng, and the prince gnashed his teeth together. What else was he supposed to do? What the hell did this world have to offer? Why didn’t he just stay with the rest of them, behind in Helovia, become one more soldier eaten away by Kaos’ reign? As volatile as the ocean, as pernicious as the abysmal treachery cast into their lungs, into their minds (an irreverent, immoral concoction; he breathed it in until the fumes filled his skull and he could cast the haunted memories away from the edges of his eyes), he strayed further along the embankment, wondering how long it would be until naught stopped him from racing into the currents and becoming free of the overwhelming burdens (and maybe, together again – back with the souls who’d already been snatched and taken from him).
His stare cut across the ruins, landing precariously on a familiar etching of brown and gold, and the warrior sighed. If he was straining under the cumbersome weight of everything, then how did Rikyn still remain, chained and locked and tethered here, unable to escape too?
He couldn’t leave him behind.
Erebos swallowed down the pungent taste of bile closing over his tongue, and moved with precision, with cutting, slashing motions (if he wasn’t lined with anguish, it was anger), unwinding and unfurling until he was several paces away from his blood brother and he didn’t know what else to do, to say. Orsino crept along his left side, and absentmindedly the boy glanced to his right, and when the empty sanction tore into him again, he whipped his head around to just stare directly at his King and wonder how they’d gotten this far. “Rikyn,” he nodded, trying to put on a smile that died before it even managed to align across his features, then had naught else to add that wouldn’t be faulty, wouldn’t be ruined, wouldn’t tear the world apart. “I-,” he started, then stopped, usually so eloquent, capable of charismatic sanctions and charming discourses, but incapable of saying anything to his best friend. “Have you figured anything out about this place?” He spoke instead, because it felt safe, instead of a barb, a dagger, straight into his heart.
So he walked and he walked, traced the shoreline with his hooves, with his daggers, with his cutlasses and knives, wondering how far he could go before everything ended and naught existed – no pain, no torment, no loss – but Orsino just kept calling and calling, an echo, a throng, and the prince gnashed his teeth together. What else was he supposed to do? What the hell did this world have to offer? Why didn’t he just stay with the rest of them, behind in Helovia, become one more soldier eaten away by Kaos’ reign? As volatile as the ocean, as pernicious as the abysmal treachery cast into their lungs, into their minds (an irreverent, immoral concoction; he breathed it in until the fumes filled his skull and he could cast the haunted memories away from the edges of his eyes), he strayed further along the embankment, wondering how long it would be until naught stopped him from racing into the currents and becoming free of the overwhelming burdens (and maybe, together again – back with the souls who’d already been snatched and taken from him).
His stare cut across the ruins, landing precariously on a familiar etching of brown and gold, and the warrior sighed. If he was straining under the cumbersome weight of everything, then how did Rikyn still remain, chained and locked and tethered here, unable to escape too?
He couldn’t leave him behind.
Erebos swallowed down the pungent taste of bile closing over his tongue, and moved with precision, with cutting, slashing motions (if he wasn’t lined with anguish, it was anger), unwinding and unfurling until he was several paces away from his blood brother and he didn’t know what else to do, to say. Orsino crept along his left side, and absentmindedly the boy glanced to his right, and when the empty sanction tore into him again, he whipped his head around to just stare directly at his King and wonder how they’d gotten this far. “Rikyn,” he nodded, trying to put on a smile that died before it even managed to align across his features, then had naught else to add that wouldn’t be faulty, wouldn’t be ruined, wouldn’t tear the world apart. “I-,” he started, then stopped, usually so eloquent, capable of charismatic sanctions and charming discourses, but incapable of saying anything to his best friend. “Have you figured anything out about this place?” He spoke instead, because it felt safe, instead of a barb, a dagger, straight into his heart.
Erebos
clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in
@Rikyn
