08-22-2016, 10:24 AM
and lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He likes this sort of living, a dark presence lurking in the corners of their mind. Though often a showman (a love of fire; of burning; of endless, terrible space), he enjoys the insidious work as well, the long game of taking them apart, piece by piece. It’s what he’s done with the silver mare, breathing slow and steady torment into her life, and it’s a thing he holds dear.
But emotions run hot, today, and he has little desire to remain as merely a dark presence sat in the corner of her foolish mind, which is why they are like this, now, her skin flayed and burnt with no explanation.
He watches, almost idle, as something passes between the shaman and her son. He gives them this moment, in an odd show of graciousness, watches with wine-dark eyes as she dives inside herself. She becomes somehow less, in this moment, and though he doesn’t know what, exactly, transpires, he knows it hurts her, and this causes a smile to curl on his savage lips.
She promises to give up everything to save her son, a stupid, protective love that he cannot comprehend – he knows only how to take advantage of this kind of martyrdom, to sue it for his own entertainment.
“Do it, then,” he says, voice soft and dangerous, “forsake them.”
Forget every name and every thing that ever mattered. For some, this would be a blessing. But for her, he knows, it would be a slow nightmare, the feeling of missing things without knowing what, a state of incompleteness to rot in.
She asks why, and he is genial enough to give her the answer.
“You took something of mine,” he says, “Gail belongs in the afterlife.”
If he cannot bring her back, no one can.
“It was a stupid thing to do.”
(And that Gail never tried to find him, when she was made flesh again? Well. He doesn’t speak of that.)
c a r n a g e
(you can write him returning drow if you want bc i meant to but forgot and now i'm running late)