10-11-2016, 02:55 PM
Anger must relent, eventually. His had ceded to bitterness ‒ a colder thing ‒ so many years ago.
The gift giver has sobered again, and perhaps the satisfaction of this place had helped. But not completely, because just like hunger, he needs these things stoking away in his gut. He needs anger, in measure, because it inspires something in him that quiet acrimony cannot. So he lets it yield to purpose, acidic and commanding.
And the two come together like perfect halves of a whole ‒ breeding and mutating, quick as a virus.
Anger and purpose.
But hope? A curious thing for the gift giver. A long-buried and dangerous thing. It had left his equation many years and universes ago. Left in mud and snow and in the iced heart that Christmas ornament had punctured and filled with blacker stuff. Still, he can appreciate that this barren land is hope, to some. Or ambition. Purposeful and dogged, pock-marked and ugly, but perhaps proud because it is, after all, a monument of dust and desire.
There is a strangeness to her. A endlessness and agelessness. “Hm. What do you think was it’s purpose then?” He might say it’s purpose was to break the thief's back. He is a simple and single-minded thing. Bone cracks and violence. Or perhaps it was meant to be a fortress, a deep and walled lair. For what? He can only imagine the dark god has his reasons and purpose, kept behind tight lips.
(Gods play games. It's what they do.)
He turns his dark eyes to the young man at her side and considers him. Perhaps timid and unsure... he knows these things, both as lamb and wolf ‒ has felt and devoured them. Has grown a taste. “And you, how do you like it here?”
(Or, perhaps, it was just a home.
And what a household this is.)
The gift giver has sobered again, and perhaps the satisfaction of this place had helped. But not completely, because just like hunger, he needs these things stoking away in his gut. He needs anger, in measure, because it inspires something in him that quiet acrimony cannot. So he lets it yield to purpose, acidic and commanding.
And the two come together like perfect halves of a whole ‒ breeding and mutating, quick as a virus.
Anger and purpose.
But hope? A curious thing for the gift giver. A long-buried and dangerous thing. It had left his equation many years and universes ago. Left in mud and snow and in the iced heart that Christmas ornament had punctured and filled with blacker stuff. Still, he can appreciate that this barren land is hope, to some. Or ambition. Purposeful and dogged, pock-marked and ugly, but perhaps proud because it is, after all, a monument of dust and desire.
There is a strangeness to her. A endlessness and agelessness. “Hm. What do you think was it’s purpose then?” He might say it’s purpose was to break the thief's back. He is a simple and single-minded thing. Bone cracks and violence. Or perhaps it was meant to be a fortress, a deep and walled lair. For what? He can only imagine the dark god has his reasons and purpose, kept behind tight lips.
(Gods play games. It's what they do.)
He turns his dark eyes to the young man at her side and considers him. Perhaps timid and unsure... he knows these things, both as lamb and wolf ‒ has felt and devoured them. Has grown a taste. “And you, how do you like it here?”
(Or, perhaps, it was just a home.
And what a household this is.)
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)