01-10-2020, 07:23 PM
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