What the actual, ever-living fuck. One moment, he’s comfy-cozy in his ice home, reveling in the most recent torture of one unfortunate Tycho, and the next he’s unceremoniously dumped on top of a Mountain. And it’s cold. Do you know how long it’s been since Bel’s felt winter’s chill? Like forever ago, it seems. It isn’t fun, and it makes him grumpy and mad and dangerous as he stomps like a child down the Mountain, determined to figure out what happened, and who is responsible for it. He cares not for what he must do to get it back - his morality (what little the giant ever had) went out the door with the demonic ice, and he’s never once looked back.
A voice reaches his ears, calling himself a God, and Belgarath cannot help but scoff. Has he not raised demons, himself? God or not (not, he thinks, but Belgarath has always been arrogant and foolish, never believing he could be defeated), the voice offers an answer and a solution of sorts, so the dappled stallion turns and follows it. The beast is not the only one - and as he comes upon a crowd that seems to center around a rather plain looking stallion (Carnage - oh the name rouses some memories, but Bel is not of Beqanna, and he has never been involved in its politics) whose words are oily and ooze through the muck and the mire of their confusion. This one is smart, Belgarath thinks - and it’s a pity he’s never been one to pledge loyalty to any but himself.
Listening, however, can’t hurt. So Belgarath stays and watches, glowering at all from on high. A silent, menacing sort of ice statue - without the ice. And that is exactly what the problem is.
belgarath
