a mountain walked or stumbled; gunsynd

[Carnage]

and lord, I fashion dark gods too;

And is he sick, still?
Perhaps – a fever still burns, low – but it is less obvious. He performs no more great magic (because they do not need it, he tells himself, ignoring the deeper possibility – that the magic might not be there, or be whole, should he reach for it).
Regardless, they have a land now, a cancerous place he has already come to enjoy. Though unintentional, it’s a land that befits its creator, for he is meant to live in dust and emptiness.
(Already, he dreams of space, of the stars. That was a different kind of emptiness. A different kind of wasteland, but a wasteland, nonetheless.)

One of the denizens – Gunsynd – has caught his eye. He reads in the boy’s DNA the powers that were once there, that still exist like an echo. Powerful, then, a man able to remake himself again and again could prove useful.
So when Gunsynd asks, Carnage listens. He does not ask for begging, not thing time. He simply makes.

And though the action is small – almost trifling – there is a flare of pain in his belly, and his teeth grit together, like sandpaper. But it works, for the power settles back into Gunsynd’s bones.
“Granted,” he says.
He doesn’t know that as he restored the power, he warped it – that the manipulation so cherished would now cause excruciating pain whenever enacted.
This strange, diseased magic is magic, yes, but it’s a sickness, as well.

c a r n a g e

( @[Gunsynd] I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. I went ahead and edited Gunsynd's point total. please post an OOC note on the mountain just so it's all kosher also if you want the 'effect' changed, holler.)