12-28-2018, 01:03 PM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
Boredom. That was the thing about Eight - he always grew bored. Bored of ruling, bored of fighting, bored of fucking, bored of fading away into the space outside of Beqanna. Boredom was the cat twining between his legs. Boredom was the mites that grew in his mind. He never stuck around long enough anymore for anything real to happen. He came, he conquered, he left. He was always vaguely intrigued, and then fabulously unimpressed. But such is life.
He was born here, eons ago, and perhaps that is why he can never truly leave, why he’s never all that gone from this land. She is a ball and chain like no other, for some reason. There is no land for him to covet, no woman for him to bed, no children for him to father to - he leaves all that behind each and every time. He does not return for power or glory, for love or lust, for land or lore. He returns because that is just the way the world turns.
“Why not?” He says, stepping from the air, his interest piqued. “Why not a little spar?” He comes closer, his eyes scaling you two small colts beneath him. Strange, you both bear the resemblance to a galaxy- stars spiderwebbing your bodies like god Herself came down to kiss you.
The smell of rot permeates, the clashing voices of you two; too young to know much of most anything, the garish glaze of galaxy over your bodies - this, this is what Beqanna was now.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to see a bit of blood?” His voice is not menacing nor malice - his voice is light, lilting, an inflected question to pique your interest, a slight suggestion of thought (though he has yet to use the pull of magic to truly plant the seed in your head). Hasn’t everyone always had that twinge of desire to see a bit of blood?
He was born here, eons ago, and perhaps that is why he can never truly leave, why he’s never all that gone from this land. She is a ball and chain like no other, for some reason. There is no land for him to covet, no woman for him to bed, no children for him to father to - he leaves all that behind each and every time. He does not return for power or glory, for love or lust, for land or lore. He returns because that is just the way the world turns.
“Why not?” He says, stepping from the air, his interest piqued. “Why not a little spar?” He comes closer, his eyes scaling you two small colts beneath him. Strange, you both bear the resemblance to a galaxy- stars spiderwebbing your bodies like god Herself came down to kiss you.
The smell of rot permeates, the clashing voices of you two; too young to know much of most anything, the garish glaze of galaxy over your bodies - this, this is what Beqanna was now.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to see a bit of blood?” His voice is not menacing nor malice - his voice is light, lilting, an inflected question to pique your interest, a slight suggestion of thought (though he has yet to use the pull of magic to truly plant the seed in your head). Hasn’t everyone always had that twinge of desire to see a bit of blood?
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in