lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He drinks in the brief flash of her fear, her confusion, when he first manifests. He will grow tired of such things someday, he supposes, but for now, there is still a momentary pleasure in their fright, in his own intrinsic knowledge that he could undo her with a word, a blink of the eye.
He adds to the atmosphere, calls in a fog, thick and suffocating. Makes this an empty place, like some awful dream. He keeps the space between them clear, though. He wants to make sure she can see him.
He considers, briefly, making himself larger, more monstrous. But that is a cheap thrill, easy. He’ll settle for the fog, instead. Keeping her in this awful, unescapable dream.
She stumbles over her words, and he almost pities her. She was never meant to face a god – few were. It would be a mercy, to leave now, to blink out of existence and leave her breathless and questioning, able to convince herself it never happened at all.
But he, of course, is not a man of mercy.
“Questions,” he repeats – mocks – and he steps closer. All around them is white, and his voice echoes faintly. Questions, questions, questions.
“Questions about your father,” he says, “And I have your answers. To all those things you wonder to yourself.”
A pause, a breath.
“Of course,” he continues, “I’ll need something from you, first. You can offer, or I can decide for you. Quid pro quo, Eyas. Quid pro quo.”
c a r n a g e
@[Eyas]