08-26-2015, 09:53 AM
and lord, I fashion dark gods too;
It has been quiet, says his son, a light growl. No surprise, there, the land ebbs and flows but never changes overmuch. He regards the son further, tries to recall her mother (there are so many, a blur of names and bodies). In earlier days he might have tried to take him, shape him – but those days are gone, his children are always disappointments, though some more than others.
(Most disappointing are the ones who try, providing a stark relief for their failure. Elite had tried, had summoned him in death and gore, an altar, and he had come – but then she had descended into the open arms of madness and he had no more use for her, left her lost and feral in her limbo.)
“What a shame,” he responds. He thinks sometime of burning the land alive, just to see if he could – Beqanna is not like other lands, there is a magic in the heart-veins of it that does not exist in other worlds. There is a tenuous respect there, forged in the centuries he’s walked the lands, so he leaves it standing, and it lets him persist, evolve.
“And what do you have in mind?” he asks. He does not expect miracles. But still, he is bored, the breeding season passed (and in its wake, another wave of star-children, marked his in ways the others were not).
The jaguar woman speaks then, ruffled, and he watches her steadily. Quiet indeed, she assents, then asks the question: is that why you’ve returned?
Truth be told he doesn’t know why he returned, only that his bones called for the place and he obliged. Though an idea is forming in his queer and dangerous mind, thinking of his lair, of its emptiness.
Ah, but such plans are not for their ignorant ears, so instead he plays the role of dark and mysterious god.
“Perhaps,” he muses, “Beqanna could use a bit of life to her.”
c a r n a g e