12-29-2018, 06:49 PM
and lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He remembers the old queen quite fondly. As a friend, even, though she would not say the same about him. Few are left, from that era, they’re all dead or scattered, and it behooves him to occasionally sup upon nostalgia, remember the Beqanna of old, back when he was closer to mortal, when he had not fully ascended into omnipotence.
He isn’t sure what exactly brought her to mind, for there was little that was remarkable about her (save for her advanced age, a truer immortal than most). Perhaps the crater he passes, gaping and empty, stirs something in his mind, a long ago memory of the taste of blood and something else, and how the gaping holes of her had looked out at nothing.
She is not difficult to find, once he thinks her name - Ryatah - and crawls across the multitudes of minds. She is in the meadow, peaceful, and he wonders, briefly, what her reaction will be. They have met, since, come together under her sightless gaze, but many years have transpired.
She is pregnant, he sees, stomach well distended. He can hear three heartbeats – twins, then. He leaves them alone. They are of no interest to him.
“Ryatah,” he purrs, sweet, “it’s been awhile.”
He touches her, bold and arrogant, traces his muzzle over her forehead, across the craters where her eyes once rested. To someone who didn’t know the dark god, did not know the history there, it might look kind.
“All this time, and you can’t find a measly pair of eyes? You should have asked me.”
As if he is a giving god.
c a r n a g e