[private] do you feel like a young god? offspring

[Offspring]

You're looking at an absolute zero;
I'm not the devil but I won't be your hero.

  Once upon a time, he might have longed for the frigidity of winter, of the glacial wind and cold of ice across the surface of his marred skin – but it stirred anguish he would rather forget, buried to the deepest and darkest recesses of his mind. It reminded him of a different time, of a different place, where he had once been the ice-wielding King of a barren wasteland, of a brotherhood that had become a part of his very existence – a brotherhood that had given him a reason to live, a reason to thrive. It had been taken from him, and with it, his ice – and fire had grown within him instead, festering and flickering with a scalding heat, fluttering within the hearth of his chest.

  As restless and as raucous as the rumbling volcano itself, and its heavy, blossoming plume of smoke – rising to the vacant, open sky, as endless as the tempestuous sea, where the scarlet intensity of his gaze has lingered yet again. In quiet contemplation, he is utterly still and motionless, with little more than his shallow breath or the slow, deliberate blinking of his iron stare for liveliness. So much of his day is spent tucked away near the base of the growling volcano, silently admiring the thin rivulets of lava seeping through the soft and fertile soil, crawling out toward the wild and unruly sea, stretching out the boundary line of his domain. The solitude is soothing, calming (as much as the soft rustling of the ocean breeze weaving its way through the golden vegetation swaying to and fro, or the whispering sea), and he is at ease.

   Alas, there is movement toward the southwest, and he is roused from his reverie, as the crimson depth of his hardened gaze is narrowed on the gleaming, gilded creature moving toward the distant shoreline. He can see so much further and so much clearer than most (he is still not used to it – a side effect of the pyrokinesis that had carved its way into his terse muscle and hardened bone, he is certain), and it is not long before Amet is no longer alone, as his powerful legs carry him through the mire to toward the reptilian King.

  A flicker of recognition gleams within the rim of his bloodstained eye, with a faint uptick of a smile tugging at the corner of his dark mouth – a replication of the one worn by the gilded King; his presence is a pleasant one to behold, and not at all unexpected – until he realizes that it is his own name dying on his lips, and not that of Warrick, or Tangerine. Curiosity is alight, like a blistering flame, illuminating his usually dark and hardened features. His tangled tresses fall in the way of his gaze as his behemoth body is made to be still before him, nostrils flaring to take in the familiar scent of ash and wisteria from his skin – a glimmer of regret flashing in his gaze; he still had not forgotten the promise that he had made him.

  He would find a way.

  ”Amet, welcome,” he utters, his tone warm but rough around the edges, his throat hoarse from the quiet he had kept to. ”what a pleasant surprise. What brings you to Tephra?”

OFFSPRING

another zealot with the weight of the fucking world.

@[Amet]