» every broken promise

E R E B O S He didn’t see Kiada sink into the river and join her brethren amidst the tides. His eyes only bore witness to the souls restlessly threading along the earth, conjured by a makeshift demon, brought back to life solely to corrupt and bludgeon. He likely should’ve known some of the faces, they could’ve been ancestors, bones carved and taken from Isilme’s soil, thrown and tossed amongst the hatred, the violence, and the vitriol. But he was too far gone, too consumed himself, too damn tired of the onslaught to look them in the eyes and see the blue reflected back, to wonder if his fire had once been the same as theirs. Instead, Erebos stood before children and forgot about anything and everything but the bloodshed, but the desire to ruin, to maim and destroy, curling the smallest snicker across his lips, throwing himself into oblivion because it was familiar, because when he was infernal and wretched he was also alive. The corruption pulsing through his blood didn’t require any coercion – it simply sang and simmered in the restless, unrelenting air of false gods and rotten distortion, at home in the fire and flames, in bedlam, in torture, in horrors and blasted, infernal upheaval. Like a demon, like a mercenary, like a barbaric blade eager, fervent, to strike, he unleashed the fabrications and pretenses of pain (hoped it sickened the dead too, hoped it struck them right in the heart, right in the head, right in the last moments of their rancorous breath). He attempted to flood their enemies with the brutality of disaster and precision: the sharp, meticulous juncture of lost loved ones severed and destroyed before their eyes, the loss of homes, the constant, ridiculous consumption of all their promises, of all their hopes, of all warm, tender, fleeting moments. Erebos brought it back to the forefront of his frame time and time and time again, a vicious, persistent wave of acrimony and vigilance, protecting little ones like Patrick, backing across the runes, along the water, a savage Poseidon pervading the pool. Even when he reached the shoreline, he continued, an angry, torrential opus of wrath and contempt, an echo of their dimming dreams. {Tries to use dark magic to inflict imaginary pain on ghosts surrounding them, then ESCAPES towards the shoreline near @Patrick, still using his magic to help others in their escape.} nothing satisfies but I'm getting close

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