Siren's Summit
08-03-2017, 11:03 PM
The stones were some source of information, and he desperately wanted to figure them out – like the obelisk once in the Spectral Marsh, signatures of graveyard convictions. The youth drew in the air and wondered just how many catacombs haunted this region too, elongating his stare so they were solely fixated on the monuments, drawing closer, always so easily tempted, so easily led by the calls of curiosity – never entirely sated, desperate for answers, for signs, for conclusions instead of the endless parade of lies and deceptions. He’d tried to employ wisdom the way all schemers did – for corruption, for avarice, for power and distortion; entranced by the notions of something else, something he couldn’t explain, could only begin to ponder. He didn’t want to be outsmarted again, sketched over an outline of a great, grand fool, an idiot incapable of doing anything for those he cherished. There were bound to be answers in the mountains (because not once had a summit ever betrayed him – they toiled in his blood, ice and upheaval, the cold, the chill, the seditious spread of Machiavellian designations), in the rocks, in the strange, eerie silence. What was hidden here? Would it be enough to take Kisamoa down, to puncture, to devastate, to ruin just as the fallen God had done? The inquiries spiraled and curled, breathed an unrelenting force through his cranium -
Then something caused him to turn his head, swivel his gaze towards the water, and land upon the blossoms resting there, at peace, resigned to tranquility.
He’d been ensconced, captured, trapped, ensnared before he’d even had a chance to fight it off (and lord, he always fought; it was a part of his namesake, part of his being), and he was angling himself towards the serenity, away from the stones, spun away from furtive secrets for new ones. The blooms reminded him of many things, but mostly of his sister (the lithe petals always serenading her presence, always plaited into her mane), and he had no recollection of doing anything but following their eldritch intoxications, fuming one moment, and dreaming the next. Orsino pulled at his tail with his fangs, with his teeth, with his might, but the warrior seemingly felt none of it, traced and defined by the allure, by the beguiling, of witches and their invocations, crushed into their enchantments like a leaf, like a moth. He’d even lowered his head to brush over their dulcet glamour, their radiant opulence, wondering, in this strange, unwinding haze, if Loth had left them here, nearly placing his hoof upon the edges of the embankment to coast over the surface – reign as an illustrious prince Poseidon again.
However, a voice cut through the throng, sending his mind spinning, confused, muddled, and perplexed. Erebos! His ears caught the beckoning, recognized the inflections, the tone, and his cranium turned towards her, narrowing his eyes in uncertainty, because he couldn’t remember arriving to the water’s edge, couldn’t recall Orsino hanging off his tail, couldn’t place what was happening or what was going on. He blinked once or twice, shook his skull, inclined his stare back to her, bewilderment and mystification stinging his brow, pulsing through the maddening, piercing depths of his eyes. “Weaver,” he spoke, but then didn’t know what to add, conforming back to normalcies, back to platitudes, struggling to regain his senses. “How are you?”
Then something caused him to turn his head, swivel his gaze towards the water, and land upon the blossoms resting there, at peace, resigned to tranquility.
He’d been ensconced, captured, trapped, ensnared before he’d even had a chance to fight it off (and lord, he always fought; it was a part of his namesake, part of his being), and he was angling himself towards the serenity, away from the stones, spun away from furtive secrets for new ones. The blooms reminded him of many things, but mostly of his sister (the lithe petals always serenading her presence, always plaited into her mane), and he had no recollection of doing anything but following their eldritch intoxications, fuming one moment, and dreaming the next. Orsino pulled at his tail with his fangs, with his teeth, with his might, but the warrior seemingly felt none of it, traced and defined by the allure, by the beguiling, of witches and their invocations, crushed into their enchantments like a leaf, like a moth. He’d even lowered his head to brush over their dulcet glamour, their radiant opulence, wondering, in this strange, unwinding haze, if Loth had left them here, nearly placing his hoof upon the edges of the embankment to coast over the surface – reign as an illustrious prince Poseidon again.
However, a voice cut through the throng, sending his mind spinning, confused, muddled, and perplexed. Erebos! His ears caught the beckoning, recognized the inflections, the tone, and his cranium turned towards her, narrowing his eyes in uncertainty, because he couldn’t remember arriving to the water’s edge, couldn’t recall Orsino hanging off his tail, couldn’t place what was happening or what was going on. He blinked once or twice, shook his skull, inclined his stare back to her, bewilderment and mystification stinging his brow, pulsing through the maddening, piercing depths of his eyes. “Weaver,” he spoke, but then didn’t know what to add, conforming back to normalcies, back to platitudes, struggling to regain his senses. “How are you?”
Erebos
clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in
@Weaver
