01-18-2020, 07:10 PM
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