|
He listened to her, as he always did since she was a child and he was a fool (still the earth hastened to say, indulge, and mock), eyes pinpointed directly on her features, on the smile blooming despite every single action thrown against her. Erebos had to compliment her on her strength, on her persistence, because he wasn’t sure if he’d been able to take what the false God had intoned and set forth – his anger would’ve bristled, would’ve seethed, would’ve simmered until he burst. He would’ve been an inferno, a blaze, taking anything and everything down with him, mired in his hatred, in his animosity, in his entangled web of deceit, torment, and upheaval – he’d breathe it until the day his lungs collapsed and his heart choked; merciless and bitter, vengeful and blistering. The youth was one more fire Kisamoa had yet to snuff out – sometimes coal, sometimes embers, sometimes requiring the stoking, the air, the finery, of others to coax him to full flame – but then he’d be the weapon, the blade, the rapier they so desperately needed. The notion that she was here for a trial (the whole damn place was a trial), only ensued a lengthening of his grin – rapacious and glinting, intrigued both of them would be settling into predators’ dens and feasting on the remains as he dipped his muzzle to align against hers; seditious, rebellion fondness. “The same as you, though I have to answer vengeful spirits.” So they’d be pariahs in the mist again, constantly devout to the unraveling of more and more demons – his brow arched, smile grew lopsided, appearing as if the world wouldn’t swallow them whole the moment they stepped any further into its charade. He knew naught of a Magnus Metus, though if he were to hazard a guess based on their current lot in life, it was some ridiculous monster, some behemoth of a fiend, some clicking, clacking maelstrom born from Hell and nightmares. But the warrior was still a knight, twisted though his garb and armor might have been, and proffered his services only moments thereafter. “Let me know if I can be of assistance.” He had no doubts she’d emerge victorious, Kiada endured and forged on ahead while the rest of them stared and stood; so he allowed his gaze to cast back into the shadows, where the realm threatened, bristled, eager and ready to bear arms.
“Shall we?” His tilted head was an invitation, his mischievous grin a light in the labyrinth; regally defined despite his lack of noble bones and honorable refinement. It was all gone now, distorted and coiled, contorted back into the framework of malevolence and disaster – and he’d stand on the line again between morality and iniquity, fervent to blast away reflections of his innermost soul. His movements were light, silent and savage, sinister and hushed, embarking into the folds of their quests with might and determination stolen across his brow – the unsung hiss of Orsino’s following steps tracing the ominous void. What was one more damned nightmare, after suffering so many others?
|
Green Labyrinth
