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don't care to settle in
Open Siren's Summit 
Erebos
Currently championing:
#11

Erebos had always been the boy who wouldn’t give in. Perhaps it was a character trait passed on from bullish, obstinate, defiant souls to another, traveling through the bloodstream, awakening on first impressions and acts of rage. Maybe it was a symbolic growth, a port in the storm, a vigilant, persevering, enduring fortitude ensuring his dastardly survival through thick and thin – for quitting had never been an option, lying down and falling apart had never been anything but a fickle, mercurial dream. He was damned and doomed to spend an eternity fighting his own ghosts, demons, and monsters, alongside the world’s fiends, cretins, and infidels – and even when they released their gnashing teeth from his side, he didn’t relent.

He could be terror, and this land simply continued to inspire the brutality in him.

The youth, the Knight they called him (they didn’t know him at all then – the way blood pooled at his feet, the way vengeance sang to him like the simplest of sonnets, like the kindest of words), didn’t flinch when they returned to their leader, didn’t cry or howl at the thrumming bouts of pain coating his flesh. Instead, he curled and coiled and abolished, humming with the vicious intensity of his powers – the darkness stayed there, a constant reminder that he could torment them in return. You’ll never be safe here, and he laughed, he laughed, he laughed, choking back a roar, a snarl, feasting his piercing eyes on the shades of their steam and the ridiculousness of the entire situation. Maybe you won’t be safe from me, he yearned to utter, to spark, to cut and slash against their torrents. The impulse was still there when he turned to more practical matters (somewhere in that mind, in those vibrant memories, was a time of prosperity and politics, where regality, nobility, control, and composure meant something; yet to be erased), when his voice rang across the horizon. “Then what do you want from me?” What was the point of the charade? To show them their power, their dominance? The onslaught could go on for hours, until either of them succumbed (and it wouldn’t be him, he promised, deep in the fathoms of his disastrous wake, clambering for the decadence of dissolution and chaos). Why had he been summoned, beckoned away from the greater, dominating structure of the mountains? Why couldn’t this damned world leave them all in peace for one measly moment in time?


Erebos
clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in

image || table

@Rift Presence
Rift Presence
Currently championing:
#12
the Rift
Then what do you want from me?” You spoke and the large Siren in the center of the water giggled. She took a moment to scour her nails as if she was deep in thought until her bright eyes lifted from them back at you. She watched as you didn’t flinch when the water reached your skin, and some of the smaller sirens roared in an angry flurry. “Punish him. Punish him.” They seemed to mutter to themselves in their foreign tongues. But the main siren smirked, holding up her hand to stop them from speaking.

“Perhaps we’re just trying to see what you’re made of.” She began, lifting her head defiantly and allowing her pink gaze to stare straight through you. “If you creatures are really what the God said you were, that you’d be able to restore this place.” She stifled another giggle. “You might want to watch your back more often.” She grinned, turning away from Erebos and submerging herself in the warm waves again. All that were left were the two sirens from before, staring and watching Erebos with threatening eyes.

[ You are welcome to keep interacting with the remaining two sirens, if you'd like! ]
» Presence of the Rift «


Erebos
Currently championing:
#13

Erebos was tempted to show them exactly what they seemed to crave – a monster, a demon, a fiend loosened from his tethers and shaking with rage. It clawed throughout his frame, yearning to break free in this worthless world and convey the armaments, the soulless promises, the acts of overpowering vengeance restlessly intertwined within veins and bones, but he held firm, stared straight into their heathen features. What more could they do? What else could they take away? There was a dare in his gaze – a bold, valiant effort to partake in the blend of knightly statures and vagabond requests beating at his chest, a pledge, a declaration, to deliver whatever crimes and punishment they decreed upon him, to strike it twofold, until the whole world burned down around him. Perhaps you should watch yours he wanted to laugh, wanted to howl, wanted to smirk and snicker and tear them all apart, piece by piece, throw them back into the sea, witness more bloodshed, more tears, more anguish because that’s all this kingdom had pledged. Over and over again, it’d been the same ridiculous requests, the same facetious motions, the same timeless, empty promises and vague weavings – and he refused to be subjected to them any longer. He’d be their phantom, their pariah, ghosting amidst their plains and heathen halls, tearing down castle walls, striking at ramparts, at munitions, striking and lancing, harpooning and lacerating, until they submitted, until they were destroyed – just as Kaos had done to them. …you’d be able to restore this place was almost a joke, a damned farce, a bewitching clamor meant to lead him astray, because hadn’t this empire always been a mockery of hope, of charity, of mercy, when it plunged them hellbound, when it clutched and grasped and clamored for their souls, their dreams? Didn’t it show the ghosts of their pasts, wreck havoc on their hearts? Were they being tortured, mercilessly embroiled and consumed, just so this refuge could be altered? Still, he was so eerily still, an ethereal minion of Mephistopheles, waiting for his moment to strike, uttering curious oaths and proclamations, keeping the wheels turning, the plots scheming, the pieces unraveling. “How are we supposed to restore it?” He expected granules of torture, more horrors to defy, more crosses to bear, more plumes and shards stuck in his sides. “What did it use to be?” Before Kisamoa had sprung from his bones of others, before he’d become entangled and rooted in this godforsaken hell?
Erebos
clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in

image || table

@Rift Presence