01-20-2019, 06:29 PM
and lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He tries to find ways to keep his life interesting.
Boredom is a common thing, for gods, when it is too easy to manipulate the world to whatever whim rises. He has done his fair share of this, true, has broken many knees when they refuses to bend, has taken what was not freely given. There is a savage satisfaction in that, of course, one he will always enjoy. But it is easy, to take by force, when one has as much force as he does.
So he finds ways, he plays games where only he is privy to the rules. Games where he tries to make them bend of their own will, to find the right combination of promises and, sometimes, even sweetness, that will make them acquiescence, to ask for what he would already give.
(Or take, depending.)
Sometimes he does not have to do much. There are some who seemed primed for him. She is one such thing, he thinks, as he watches her in the darkness. She does not panic – her heart quickens, he hears the rapid thud of its beats – but it does not jackhammer against her chest.
All things considered, she is calm.
There are bloodstains on the walls she cannot see from horses less calm, skittish, panicked creatures who threw themselves against the sides of their cage, as if their captor, their god, would be foolish enough to build a place they could escape from.
He keeps the darkness, but moves closer, until he finds her skin again. He increases the weight of the darkness, until it presses against them, something smothering and tangible.
“This is my…workspace,” he says. He’d almost said home, the first word that came to mind, but it was not quite true – he rarely sleeps here. This is a place to hold others, to orchestrate them, to break and uncover them.
He lifts the darkness then, slowly, though his erases the more deplorable parts – hides the bloodstains from her view, the fragments of bone, the bleakness of the rock around them. He softens it, pretties it.
(It’s almost romantic, you see.)
“What do you think?”
c a r n a g e