for a moment he is nothing. he is a brief spectre, a lapse in time that folds breath over breath in tender flesh – bone, and unhallowed marrow, that which pulls and drags like the current of the oceans. unmoving, unwarranted, he is a shade amongst shades, highlighted only by the shimmering firelight that falls across his sharpest features. they pool in the shallows, gather against the high, haughty ridge of his cheekbone. they taste his skin in tendrils of embracing warmth, but even they cannot reach the chill. his expression remains empty, save the small spark of amusement that lingers in those scythe eyes. they are crescent moons – waning, weary, and as treacherous as the rest of his carpathian features. they glow with the reflection of flame and starve it of its humble glow, drinking in with uncontested depth and malice. he waits. they, too – these rogue crescents that bide like knives, precarious and collusive.
where one streak of gold ends, another begins. they vein in the pallor of the marble, etched between two nestling streaks of silvery aurora, and his flesh rises to meet them. he does not shrink from the warring females. he does not recede into the dark, skin crawling with the apprehension of turbulence. he merely lingers, loitering child of the fates, and waits for the scent of blood to permeate the abandoned halls. he longs for it. he yearns for it. a part of him reaches out to their flesh, aches to peel it from bone and bathe in the succulence between – of mortality, drink in. his heart is a bitter thing but it stammers at the thought, rising swollen in his throat as he is consumed.
time seems too slow. too grudging. they hold back too much. too much.
his tongue slips from between his lips in anticipation, wetting the dry line and roving over the rind of his canines, their sharpened peaks. something lurches in him as tensions rise between them, and he swallows it back with a predatory gulp that threatens to stick to the crags in his throat like a knot. the weight is heavy. the ichor rises in his veins, hot and wanting. it presses to every fine line and kisses each pore with wanton lust, beckoned by the notion of war. but these are petty words, empty things that seared and hissed like the fire at the dame's heels. none burned. not enough. not enough.
erasmus, though finding kinship in the craft of their temple, was not a twin to its design. his silhouette stood out from its alabaster halls, ever more highlighted in the pyre light that sought him hungrily from the shadows. their exchange is too limp for them to pursue (yet, we think) and their eyes remember his shape. he does not withdraw. a part of him enjoys the attention. the other scowls behind the corner, a hades grin full with misanthropic grit.
the sprite appeals to his better vanity, though his arrogance pales to theirs – he knows better. he does not feed her compliment with more than the spread of a wry grin, something far more feral and toothier than it should be. but it is suave, curtailed with a handsome dimple that carries the mask of innocent youth. a boy with the soul of cerberus. what does he know of temples? what does he know of gods? of sacrifice? the shadows pull against his frame and laugh from the darkened edges. for, we know more than he. indeed he is a spiteful, curiously proud creature, but such wisdom is not one of the things he chooses to feign – moreso for the off chance that he is horribly wrong. if it were his first choice, he would be mute, so as to never let on to anything he ever knew. untold stories were precious secrets, and there were so few of those left in the world.
he discarded the penetrative gaze of the painted mare, and shrugged himself from the marble. his eyes, jewelled things that roved hungrily from the black, rolled over the incantations embedded in the walls, the astrological diagrams that sprawled every corner. the flames mingled with the dying sunlight, sparking flickering lights and hovering shadows across the broad breezeway, illuminating etchings that died and flourished with each timid flare. the words were archaic and bold, and while he did not recognize their meanings they seemed just on the edge of his mind, like some ancient language lost to him as an infant. at last, his eyes fell to the altars, and clung to them as he spoke. “i am not from here," his eyes flicked between each altar. one, two, three. dust rested in their bowls, twigs and dead leaves that crumpled, veined with age. “as a child, i was told that gods did not die, but fade..." a breath in, a breath out, a small chuckle followed the exhale, and he brought his eyes back to Israfel's. that the gods survived on veneration and sacrifice. and without either, their power ceased. it was deeper than that. deeper than the roots of the oldest trees, deeper than the core of the world. he knew more, there was so much more. but that was his, and his alone. “i know nothing of this place." but he wondered, how it rutted inside of him, the wonder, as he studied the altars full of dust.
how much blood would satisfy a sleeping god?
where one streak of gold ends, another begins. they vein in the pallor of the marble, etched between two nestling streaks of silvery aurora, and his flesh rises to meet them. he does not shrink from the warring females. he does not recede into the dark, skin crawling with the apprehension of turbulence. he merely lingers, loitering child of the fates, and waits for the scent of blood to permeate the abandoned halls. he longs for it. he yearns for it. a part of him reaches out to their flesh, aches to peel it from bone and bathe in the succulence between – of mortality, drink in. his heart is a bitter thing but it stammers at the thought, rising swollen in his throat as he is consumed.
time seems too slow. too grudging. they hold back too much. too much.
his tongue slips from between his lips in anticipation, wetting the dry line and roving over the rind of his canines, their sharpened peaks. something lurches in him as tensions rise between them, and he swallows it back with a predatory gulp that threatens to stick to the crags in his throat like a knot. the weight is heavy. the ichor rises in his veins, hot and wanting. it presses to every fine line and kisses each pore with wanton lust, beckoned by the notion of war. but these are petty words, empty things that seared and hissed like the fire at the dame's heels. none burned. not enough. not enough.
erasmus, though finding kinship in the craft of their temple, was not a twin to its design. his silhouette stood out from its alabaster halls, ever more highlighted in the pyre light that sought him hungrily from the shadows. their exchange is too limp for them to pursue (yet, we think) and their eyes remember his shape. he does not withdraw. a part of him enjoys the attention. the other scowls behind the corner, a hades grin full with misanthropic grit.
the sprite appeals to his better vanity, though his arrogance pales to theirs – he knows better. he does not feed her compliment with more than the spread of a wry grin, something far more feral and toothier than it should be. but it is suave, curtailed with a handsome dimple that carries the mask of innocent youth. a boy with the soul of cerberus. what does he know of temples? what does he know of gods? of sacrifice? the shadows pull against his frame and laugh from the darkened edges. for, we know more than he. indeed he is a spiteful, curiously proud creature, but such wisdom is not one of the things he chooses to feign – moreso for the off chance that he is horribly wrong. if it were his first choice, he would be mute, so as to never let on to anything he ever knew. untold stories were precious secrets, and there were so few of those left in the world.
he discarded the penetrative gaze of the painted mare, and shrugged himself from the marble. his eyes, jewelled things that roved hungrily from the black, rolled over the incantations embedded in the walls, the astrological diagrams that sprawled every corner. the flames mingled with the dying sunlight, sparking flickering lights and hovering shadows across the broad breezeway, illuminating etchings that died and flourished with each timid flare. the words were archaic and bold, and while he did not recognize their meanings they seemed just on the edge of his mind, like some ancient language lost to him as an infant. at last, his eyes fell to the altars, and clung to them as he spoke. “i am not from here," his eyes flicked between each altar. one, two, three. dust rested in their bowls, twigs and dead leaves that crumpled, veined with age. “as a child, i was told that gods did not die, but fade..." a breath in, a breath out, a small chuckle followed the exhale, and he brought his eyes back to Israfel's. that the gods survived on veneration and sacrifice. and without either, their power ceased. it was deeper than that. deeper than the roots of the oldest trees, deeper than the core of the world. he knew more, there was so much more. but that was his, and his alone. “i know nothing of this place." but he wondered, how it rutted inside of him, the wonder, as he studied the altars full of dust.
how much blood would satisfy a sleeping god?
@Morrighan , @Israfel
