you need a big god; ryatah

[Carnage]

lord, I fashion dark gods too;

He isn’t one for romance, but he enjoys games – scenarios unraveling, testing. It’s why his lair was built, after all, so that such experiments might unfold at a leisurely pace, over days or weeks or years, collecting data on any number of terrible and wonderful things. She has done remarkably well on such tests, had flourished in his lair, even when she was damp with magicked water and the smell of death still upon her. (It had been so beautiful, in a way, mostly because she had still wanted, after, a quality that is so rare in the women he maims or kills.) He could take her back, he thinks. There are multitudes of scenarios they could unravel together. But he is bored, of the lair. Other worlds call, the aching galaxies above. “Good,” he murmurs, glad enough to hear it, though the children do not cross his mind the way she has. His children are a legion of disappoint, and he learned long ago not to invest much in them. (This does not keep him from spawning multitudes, as if someday the odds will fall in his favor, and there will be a son or daughter worthy of his blood.) It’s not evening, but it’s close. The stars will be out soon. He glances upward. “Ryatah,” her name is rough in his mouth, coarseness to her coquettishness, “I’d have you come with me.” It’s an invitation dressed as a command, or perhaps vice versa – he’d leave her be, if she refused, though perhaps wounded or otherwise punished. But he has always known her to be curious, if not exactly obedient.