11-11-2018, 07:56 PM
and lord, I fashion dark gods too;
She makes promises – empty ones, but he likes the attitude behind it well enough. There have been legions before her with such promises, of course, but he still appreciates the effort.
“Atta girl,” he says, and laughs, a sound like rats scampering over broken glass. He steps closer, touches her, then, his muzzle riding over the gelatinous mess of her tentacles. Like some half-formed eldritch thing, and he appreciates the effort.
(When the afterlife was first made, his devotees faced true monsters, true Great Old Ones, with consonantal names and non-Euclidian angles, and he’s had a fondness for such atrocities ever since.)
He continues to appraise her, running his muzzle over her, a combination of workmanlike and lustful, over curves and beak, considering.
“I don’t give a fuck about your other pacts,” he says, mouth close to her ear, breath hot and fetid, “if you want Pangea, I am the only god that matters.”
He steps away, but keeps the air around her hot, uncomfortable. He presses in with his magic, nothingness bearing down on her, like the gravity of oceans.
“So eager,” he says, voice more melodious now, sweet as rotting fruits, “I won’t keep you waiting.”
He steps back, then, and between them a crevasse opens, a maw gaping in the earth. A sickly green light emanates, Pangea’s same sick heart.
“If you trust me-”
(She shouldn’t.)
“then jump. Let Pangea decide if you’re worthy of my bloodline.”
Something inside the crevasse groans, an organic, awful sound. He watches her, gaze unwavering.
He could push her, he knows. But it’s just so much more fun to let them choose, let them do this to themselves.
c a r n a g e