06-08-2018, 10:06 AM
we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight You’d be wise not to challenge me, son. In that moment, Warrick begs for an ability - a power beyond his wings to lash out at the dark god who holds him steadfast and tightly, cold tendrils of magic spiraling around his barrel and clipping his wings to his sides. He struggles for a moment, anger and rage fueling him for a few more moments, the sounds of curses and strained shouting falling from his cobalt lips. He wants to kill him - the thing that cannot be killed - and inflict pain onto a being that cannot feel anything. He doesn’t care that it’s pointless or futile, for he cannot erase the need for pound of flesh from his mind. The dark god tosses him away, like the forgotten son he is. Cold earth rushes up to meet him and the air escapes his lungs in one desperate exhalation. The powerful magic leaves him, facedown in the dirt with bruised legs and a broken mind. There is a shadow cast over the osprey-King, one not only from the brooding and powerful thunderstorm god that is his father, but a change that is evident on the once distraught mahogany face. On his side - defeated, a mere ant compared to the dark god - Warrick’s gaze flickers up to him, oceanic eyes cold and burning. “You are not my father - not in the way that matters.” Nostrils flare as a sharp snort escapes him, his breath a wheeze as he notices the soreness in his ribcage. He lifts his head then, finding that though his legs are not broken that there is a struggle for him stand; but he does it anyway. “A god, hm.” Warrick murmurs to himself, his voice low beneath his breath as he glances at his father from beneath a hooded brow, teeth clenching as he strains to remain standing. “Even as a god, you deserve no respect.” warrick |
credit to vel of adoxography.