06-24-2020, 07:04 PM
lord, I fashion dark gods too;
“That will do,” he says, “for the time being.”
He will reap his favors when he chooses, of course, in whatever manner he sees fit. But she does not have to know that – for now, he will take this promise of her freedom, feast upon it.
But then –
Eyas is rude, as he feels her touch upon her, her paltry powers at the feet of his godly magic, and he crushes her beneath it. He looses horrors, the cosmic madness that he’s known and tasted, the worlds and deaths and rebirths, the monsters, and he watches with grim pleasure as her body shakes under the barest glimpse of these things, as spittle gathers at her lips, as she falls.
He could kill her for this transgression, this vain attempt at touching him with any power that is not his own. He considers it for a beat, but decides to keep her alive, for now.
Instead, he chases her into the void of her unconsciousness, appears there, too, in the blackness. He is not seen, but he speaks, his voice echoing in her mind.
“It’s me, of course,” he says, “it’s my magic, that does it. It’s why it rots like a cancer inside your line. It’s why it can’t be removed. Except by me, of course. But why would I want to undo such a delight?”
He pauses, and his words echo, as if they are in some deep, terrible cave. Delight, delight, delight.
“I can be bargained with, but I don’t come cheap,” he says. Plants that diseased seed of hope in her mind.
Hope isn’t the only seed that’s planted in her, when he recedes from her mind, from the dark, he leaves her with more than the knowledge she’d sought. A child, meant for death but fighting through it, a tangible reminder of her promises.
c a r n a g e
@[Eyas]