lord, I fashion dark gods too;

Their dark god moves unseen in the meadow. He does not want to be seen, still seething and volatile over his misstep – Ryatah, seemingly dead on the mountain, unable (unwilling?) to come back even though he’d commanded it. He will fix this, of course, he fixes everything. He just has to think for a moment. Clear his head.
He walks, but his blood still thrums with anger, his mind churning, trying to solve the puzzle he’s unwittingly found himself in. He keeps himself invisible, not wanting to be stopped, not wanting to engage with his flock, those who come to him for power or to satisfy some dark curiosity.

When it is quiet, when he is alone, he drops the veil, manifests, a storm-cloud gray stallion. And then, in the corner of his eye, he sees a glimpse of silver. He thinks for a moment that it’s Cordis, and he brightens, because he could use the taste of terror on his tongue, but then the figure shifts, and he realizes, with disappointment, that it’s his son.
He could turn him away, he knows – glamour himself to appear as a stranger, or simply command the boy to turn away. But he doesn’t.
Perhaps he could use a distraction, after all.
“Boy,” he says – he’d never learned the child’s name, and does not bother to dip into his mind for it, “come here.”

c a r n a g e

lord, I fashion dark gods too;

He is used to devotion.
It has followed him for centuries, as he grew from mortal to deity, each death making him stronger, ushering him into godhood. And always, there were those who fell prostrate before him, bowing in supplication. True, sometimes he broke their legs to make them bow, but all that mattered was they ended up on their knees.
He does not care about the boy, but he holds a certain fondness for his mother. He had expected her to fight, as her mother before her had, to beg first for freedom, and then for death. But Perse had surprised him, she had taken what he had to give, and after, told him she loved him, would do anything for him. He tested her promise, of course, but she had never broken the way her mother had. It was intriguing, but he’d grown bored of her, had set her out into the world with a full belly to remember him by.
The boy that was once that full belly is before him now, silver like his mother and grandmother before him, but with purple that bespoke of the dark god’s own celestial flavor. He lacks such decoration now, does not want to be garish, but he is pleased to see it stamped on him.

The boy is eager – too much like his mother, maybe – as he moves closer. There is something frenetic about him, a madcap energy that causes Carnage to stay alert, on guard.
“Pentecost,” he says, “that’s right.”
He regards him. The dark lord holds his own frenetic energy, as his mind reminds him of his misstep with Ryatah. He still requires distraction, and perhaps his son will do. He’ll start small.
“Most bow when confronted with a god,” he says. A lie, sort of – he does not expect it, not really, though he never argues when it happens. He does not often work to cultivate worship. But sometimes, it’s good to remind them of the divide. He pushes further.
“Your mother always bowed. She was such a good devotee.”

c a r n a g e

(01-12-2020, 07:58 PM)Pentecost Wrote:

Do you want to know why I use a knife?
Guns are too quick. You can't savor all the...
little emotions. In... You see, in their
last moments, people show you who they
really are. So, in a way, I know your friends
better than you ever did.

He is (without a doubt) Pentecost’s golden ticket. The thoughts of Carnage are as secret as the true intention of his mother’s captivity. It wasn’t for her own safety. It wasn’t for her protection. Her didn’t give her everything she needed. But that will all likely die with the graphite stallion. Our silverly-plum boy continues to slowly approach, his frail muscle tone and awkward posture as evident as the blatant indignation radiating from Carnage’s frame. Though, we already know Pentecost hasn’t learned these very important, social cues. They didn’t come across in mommy-and-me-training. He says my name, and I cannot help but notice as he cradles it in his mouth with what I can only describe as soberness. I listen, attentive and ready. What he conveys next will be the beginning of what I can only imagine to be complete and utter bliss My first reprimand, and a flush of embarrassment glows heat, burning what butterflies still daintily flew in the pit of my stomach. Radiating their burning ashes up into my neck and cheeks leaving only the dryness of soot aching in my throat. I am without a doubt, the biggest idiot to grace his presence. (Your mother always bowed. She was such a good devotee.) “I—” Though words do not follow, they get lost in the suffocation of carbon dioxide. A moment of silence ensues before I muster up confidence to murmur, “mother is a good devotee.” No excuse could save me from the humiliation and disrespect I have shown here, and now. ((Not even the fact mother had taught me everything we know?) I bow, a delayed offering and perhaps fruitless but what else am I to do?

PENTECOST

WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHO WERE COWARDS?

lord, I fashion dark gods too;

He is wavering, cowed so easily before the dark god. It brings a fleeting pleasure, as such subservience always does. The power is sweet as honey in his mouth as he watches his silver son stammer a reply before sinking to his knees. The dark god nods once, considering.
“Perse would do anything I asked of her,” he says. He remembers their time in the cave, as she bled, broke, and loved him through all of it, a blind and stupid devotion.
“Better,” he says, then, as the boy stays on his knees, “you may rise.”

The son rises, and they are close now, father and son, god and mortal. He considers him. He is bored of this conversation already, but there is a part of him that is curious about the boy, a part that wonders if he carries some of the same devotion his mother had, as if worship was genetic. He decides to test this theory, and a smile crawls across his lips.
“Gods demand sacrifice, too,” he says, “and yet, you have brought me nothing.”
A shame, a crying shame.
“There’s still time, I suppose. Go, find me a sacrifice. A body, or a piece of one. I prefer my sacrifices bloody.”

c a r n a g e