08-17-2015, 04:10 PM
lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He falls upon Beqanna like a comet, a meteor, like end times.
(He’s always been one to make an entrance.)
Gone is the stormcloud gray he so often wears. Instead, he is a walking nebula, the galaxies moving across his skin, alive, a piece taken back with him.
The eyes are the same, though. Wine-dark and gleaming. The laugh is the same too, when it comes – a gruesome noise, like rats scampering on broken glass.
He feels the change in magic as he enters. It has shifted, divided across the lands. There is no divide between them, now, the magic shared from communal wells. This does not bother him, they are all below him. As long as his blood rules the Valley (the only land he cares for here, the land where he was born mortal, where he had begun) he does not interfere with Beqanna’s trivialities.
Not much, at least.
There had been the realm, of course, the afterlife where his morbid angel now sits, but that had been Beqanna and Gail’s own foolhardiness as much as it had been him.
He falls upon Beqanna like a wolf to prey. He’s soaked its lands with blood before, even given his own, in a death
(iteration)
or two. He falls upon it because he is bored, because the land holds mortal pleasures the galaxy beyond does not.
There is little to be said of him that has not been said before. Though he no longer thinks of himself as equine (to do so is to consider himself mortal), his body holds the shape of one, a faint dish of the face and length of leg that speak to his mortal heritage.
(Though truth be told, the creature who was born to mortal flesh has died – he is the dark god, reborn.)
The fire from the comet subsides. Around him is scorched earth and ash. He is unburnt, untouched by the flames. All across his body, the stars glimmer. Colors swirl – purples and teals and colors yet unnamed – across his flank, drip into his tail. His gray body might be his normal body, but ah, sometimes the costume is wonderful.
Besides, better to draw them in, is it not?
So he lays the bait – the comet, the fire, the stench of smoke – and he waits, a nebula made flesh, a god.
c a r n a g e