Daughter of Stinkbutt

E R E B O S Erebos returned again and again to the mists, to the fog, to the eldritch titans and vacant, nefarious shadows swelling and ensconcing them whole. The pattern was simple, forthright, and somewhat methodical – tracing over roots and foundations he hadn’t tread yet, hoping to spy, hoping to spot, hoping to find those who’d yet to enter this infernal abyss (and the list was plentiful – starting with Enna, blending with Enyo, and settling somewhere on the webs of Basin followers, on old friends who hadn’t yet been severed by Kisamoa’s hand). Sometimes the abyss played with his mind though, displayed images and ghosts, recollections of brutality and barbarity, showed reflections of savagery he’d brewed and harpooned (but the last was always a measure of pride – one oath finally followed and fulfilled). He’d scoff at portions, because they weren’t real, and lean away from others, chase after the more familiar edges of darkness, the Stygian pursuits of anarchy and sedition, because it whispered to his ruthlessness instead of bending into his plights, his flaws, his failures. Whether or not he’d fit into this world – with its callous contortions, with its avaricious claws, with its ravenous spoils – would remain to be seen (and he’d be silent, be hushed, about how the acrimonious, vicious forces wove directly into his soul, made him nearly comfortable in the denizens of devils). A sudden, sharp noise freed him from his narrowed speculations, from the bestial gaze smoldering in the dark – his head twisted in the direction of the outcry, movements stilled. Orsino remained by his feet, nearly vanished into the threads and background of sable parlors, and then together they were a beacon of curiosity and ignition, incensed by the stoked decadence, by the rush of stop and what needed to cease, by the notion of other heathens and monsters lurking amidst the void. They followed the murky cauldrons and the onslaught of doldrums, but couldn’t quite catch any other sound – so when the strange, slightly familiar scent wafted into his nares, they embarked on a similar path, embarking deeper and deeper into the unknown. He didn’t care anymore – his nature inclined towards more iniquitous ventures, by the wild, untamed contortions of inquiry, by the hauntings of who it could be and why they’d screamed. The General just hadn’t expected Rhiannon to come out of the mist. The familiar lines of Basin ties sent a hush of reverence through him, and he called out to her, a piece of his father’s past, a tie to soldier munitions and phantom vibes. “Rhiannon,” the once-prince uttered, threw into the makeshift world of wraiths and entanglements. He was glad to see her, another one of the cold north, capable of surviving, of making it out alive, of not being obliterated by tricksters and dastardly wakes. “Are you all right?” The youth called out again, shifting slightly closer, towards the reach of her stride but no more, features guarded, brow furrowed, inclined in a note of concern. Had she been the one to scream out into the chasm? Was she in need of assistance? Were there more things crawling through the gulf? nothing satisfies but I'm getting close

image credits
@Rhiannon