Deimos
Some men craved power, would topple empires and slaughter innocents to achieve it. It was a drug, heady and intoxicating in it's might, and those who chased power and reknown, addicts. They became tyrants when they grasped that power, that strength, and could only be deposed by one who had gained power equal or greater than the predecessor. Power started revolutions, rebellions, crusades. Power corrupted.
Which was why Deimos ran through dark tunnels, heedless of anything but the turning of the ground beneath him in his terror and determination to rid himself of the strength of the godsoul inside him. The soul he had stolen, had taken from another with his dying breath, had devoured unwillingly with hunger like a child to the teat. He fled, because the desire to use that power burned in his breast, a flame that crackled and burned within him, his very veins humming with the magic of the soul. With his power he could usher an age of Dark to the Gods that had forsaken him and his people. With his power-
That power wasn't his.
That sent him further into a pounding panic, his breath harsh in the stone walls unseen, his eyes wild in the blackness as shadow and terror itself mantled about him. In his panic, he did not notice the ebbing of that soul, of the insidious power, of the fading of his mantle of darkness and fear. He did not notice that shortly the very thing he feared and wished to be rid of was gone, leaving him hollow and devoid of that spark of life, only for it to be replaced with something else. A thump in his chest, weak at first, a single beat, then a second, and a third, until the beating in his breast was so rapid the pulses were hard to distinguish from each other. He did not notice his new heart beating, pumping true mortality through his barren veins, did not notice the cave lightening gradually, shade by shade. He noticed none of this in his wonton sprint, not until blinding, brilliant light seared his eyes, and dread and sorrow slammed through him. He had gone in a circle, he was back to the land of the Gods, to their accursed and beautiful city. Despair filled him as he stumbled out of the cave tunnel, collapsing by the entrance. He had no further will to venture forth, the despair settled itself around him.
Deimos waited for the madness to come.
For several long, agonizing seconds he waited, draped in that despair, until something... most strange caught his attention. A movement in his chest, a painful fluttering that the despair was tied to, a rapid beat as he lay panting on the rocky ground. His ears pricked forward, his head tilting so he could look at his chest, confusion slowly replacing the despair. Was something the matter with the soul? Had he damaged it somehow? But no, this lacked power, lacked the burning liquid heat of a soul. It was then he noticed the cloak of shadow and terror was gone from his shoulders, his back barren of it's rippling fabric. For a moment, he stared in numb shock, his mind not processing before he tried to stoke the soul within him and flare his magic.
Nothing happened. There was no miasma of fear, no billowing shadow erupting from his being to devour the ground and instill primal terror in whatever lay in its path. There was nothing. Did that mean the soul was gone? Had he somehow gotten rid of it in his return to the land of the Gods? Frowning, Deimos turned his gaze upwards... and was knocked breathless by the sight before him. The sun hung heavy and low on the horizon, flinging up an array of colors on a barren, mountainous hillside. It was beautiful, heart-wrenchingly so, that it stole the very air from his lungs in a single, awe-filled gasp. The sun had always been incandescent before in the land of the gods, but it had always hung high in the sky, untouchable and impossible to gaze upon. Deimos watched the sunset in wonder, his fear of the loss of the soul gone.
Which was why Deimos ran through dark tunnels, heedless of anything but the turning of the ground beneath him in his terror and determination to rid himself of the strength of the godsoul inside him. The soul he had stolen, had taken from another with his dying breath, had devoured unwillingly with hunger like a child to the teat. He fled, because the desire to use that power burned in his breast, a flame that crackled and burned within him, his very veins humming with the magic of the soul. With his power he could usher an age of Dark to the Gods that had forsaken him and his people. With his power-
That power wasn't his.
That sent him further into a pounding panic, his breath harsh in the stone walls unseen, his eyes wild in the blackness as shadow and terror itself mantled about him. In his panic, he did not notice the ebbing of that soul, of the insidious power, of the fading of his mantle of darkness and fear. He did not notice that shortly the very thing he feared and wished to be rid of was gone, leaving him hollow and devoid of that spark of life, only for it to be replaced with something else. A thump in his chest, weak at first, a single beat, then a second, and a third, until the beating in his breast was so rapid the pulses were hard to distinguish from each other. He did not notice his new heart beating, pumping true mortality through his barren veins, did not notice the cave lightening gradually, shade by shade. He noticed none of this in his wonton sprint, not until blinding, brilliant light seared his eyes, and dread and sorrow slammed through him. He had gone in a circle, he was back to the land of the Gods, to their accursed and beautiful city. Despair filled him as he stumbled out of the cave tunnel, collapsing by the entrance. He had no further will to venture forth, the despair settled itself around him.
Deimos waited for the madness to come.
For several long, agonizing seconds he waited, draped in that despair, until something... most strange caught his attention. A movement in his chest, a painful fluttering that the despair was tied to, a rapid beat as he lay panting on the rocky ground. His ears pricked forward, his head tilting so he could look at his chest, confusion slowly replacing the despair. Was something the matter with the soul? Had he damaged it somehow? But no, this lacked power, lacked the burning liquid heat of a soul. It was then he noticed the cloak of shadow and terror was gone from his shoulders, his back barren of it's rippling fabric. For a moment, he stared in numb shock, his mind not processing before he tried to stoke the soul within him and flare his magic.
Nothing happened. There was no miasma of fear, no billowing shadow erupting from his being to devour the ground and instill primal terror in whatever lay in its path. There was nothing. Did that mean the soul was gone? Had he somehow gotten rid of it in his return to the land of the Gods? Frowning, Deimos turned his gaze upwards... and was knocked breathless by the sight before him. The sun hung heavy and low on the horizon, flinging up an array of colors on a barren, mountainous hillside. It was beautiful, heart-wrenchingly so, that it stole the very air from his lungs in a single, awe-filled gasp. The sun had always been incandescent before in the land of the gods, but it had always hung high in the sky, untouchable and impossible to gaze upon. Deimos watched the sunset in wonder, his fear of the loss of the soul gone.
Waiting for the rest of me to die
Open for any Day courties to come bring Deimos home ;D Expect some weirdness from his end lele
