lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He is, quite often, beholden to his own impulses.
It makes sense, of course. His goals are different than most, for what kind of goals can be sought by a god? He has worship, a legion who will fall to their knees if he asks; he has children, hordes of them; he has love, even if it is a strange sort, warped, and spread between women.
What’s left is impulse. Brief flutters of desire to go here, take her.
Reveal this.
Pittances, to him – life changing (or ending) for others.
So it goes.
It’s such an impulse that he indulges, now, as he guides the girl from her land into this other place, this warped version. She is a stranger, but his blood is in her, as it is in most of Beqanna.
He makes the place flat, meaningless. A meadow, but closed off. A pretty cage, maybe. To keep her until he – what? Takes her? Breaks her?
He doesn’t know, yet. He only knows he wants her here, now.
He appears to her from nothing – a blink, and there he is, fully formed. He appears as himself, simply, gray-swathed and noble.
“Hello, Eyas,” he says, “what brings you here?”
A trick question, of course – he guided her here – but he is curious for her response.
c a r n a g e
@[Eyas]