Progeny are, at best, a way to get your rocks off.
That was the way he saw most of what became of the things that slithered out of him every time he had mounted some poor bitch of a mare, making her wiggle and scream under him. There is a level of grim satisfaction that crosses his face with every life he creates, just as with every life he takes—as if he were a God.
Of course, a god never dies.
And yet, without his magic, that is precisely what he had become. He had warped himself over the land and had made it his own, licking the flames and seeking something darker from which to stand upon. His black heart was still growing as he took a smoky step forward. That useless organ was rattling away in his ribcage, his skeleton fading in and out of crackled flesh that was still burning from where the fairy had restored his magic. The stench of death clung to him like a bad perfume—following him everywhere he went. And yet, the stain of his progeny upon this earth was still making its mark here. He could sense it. He breathed her in.
He could feel her.
Red eyes scan the horizon looking for the squirmy worm. It had grown now; he knows that. Probably creating more squirmy worms of her own. Such is the pity. Life is overrated.
But pleasure is everything. Even pleasure that comes in death.
@[Kortnee]
She is no longer grossly pregnant, feeling the weight of her sniveling child on her womb any longer. The pains of pregnancy without magic were almost too much to bear - she tried death, it wouldn't take her. It seemed her immortality at least stuck around and dragged her back into this hell hole called Beqanna. It ended, though, like all things - good or bad.
At first she planned to leave it. Anywhere, anyplace. It was a whim, like things mostly were, with the Star God. But when she came, a great little thing, she was scaled. Harmonia knew what Beqanna did from time to time, melding genetics to create something great. Her mother was traitless, her father a magician and she? A magician, as was her twin - long dead now.
What of this foal, then?
She does not give birth in Pangea because she planned to leave the thing behind and not let it know where she was. Instead she keeps it, tends to it. She doesn't feel a motherly glow (that's not in her nature) but she does find hope that it might be the child she was hoping for. Covet came close, but in the end he was weak. He loved. He did many a thing she no longer supported. Perhaps this - Ajatar, the scaled girl - would rise up.
Little did she know.
So she heads home but falters in the forest, something lurks that she knows well. She doesn't have to see his face or recognize his scent. Magicians know a lot, and families? Well, they're hard to forget, even if you never met them.
"Father," she says to the old thing. Ajatar stands near her mother, quiet, eyeing the great beast with childish curiosity. She doesn't dare take a step forward until instructed, despite the longing in her bones to come closer. HARMONIA the pied piper
This squirmy word had indeed made her own squirmy worms. There was one sitting before him. Sitting, Standing... It was clear that there was something about this one that made even him flinch a little. Pestilence. What a thing to bestow upon such a slip of a thing.
"I always figured you for a bottom-feeder, daughter... but to curse that with Carnage as a father? Have I taught you nothing?"
Truth is, he never did. And he laughs darkly with this knowledge. His daughter, his blood. His nothing. Though, the knowledge of dark magic still being a source of power in these days was a minimal comfort to him. There was no room for pussies in his line. Perhaps this new one. This little Ajatar. What would she become?
"Come give your dear old dad a hug." He cackles outright this time, his wings falling beside him and dragging the dirt as he approaches them closer. Harmonia's sense of darkness--the plague of her insanity. He would give her a reason to stay that way.
Family is everything, you know.
Had that whore of a fairy restored her magic like she promised she would have known things about her daughter that Deimos did. Instead Ajatar - unknown to the palomino thing - absorbed the restoration into herself in the womb. Parasites - that's what children were. Mewling things that took and took and took. Harmonia had every intention of leaving this one behind like the others - but those scales. It was the physical manifestation of her traits that caught the eye. Had she her powers Harmonia would have known much more about the girl. She would have known to be afraid.
Instead she treats her like most of her children - long silences, cool touches, no outward affection. They rarely speak but the child doesn't seem upset by this. She is the picture of noncomittance. She's happier to watch the world roll by a study those around her.
She learns words - bottom feeder. Dad. New words.
Harmonia smiles the way you smile when your aunt tells you they voted for Trump - a thin smile that is more a smirk than anything else, a grimace. She is not offended by his statement, you live long enough in Beqanna to only become offended by yourself. Her father does not know her, not truly, no more than her absent, career driven mother did.
The bottom is where she could skate by.
"What brings you back from the dead?" she asks by way of no conversation, watching him approach with his dragging wings with disinterest.
At first Ajatar is curious, then alarmed by the sudden movement. Without knowing what she's doing, without understanding or truly knowing, she unleashes it. Harmonia is closest and feels it first - blistering pox climbing up her leg with rapid intensity. HARMONIA the pied piper
He can sense it.
Like a rabid, ravenous animal it takes over the world and plunges outwards--seeking the warmth of bodies nearby. He sees the child blink, his wings thrust in front of his face as even Deimos leans away from it. Looking on, his laughter is replaced by anger, and a vague sense of disgust. Her scales seem to shimmer, even with the low light, and he realizes, she is barely--unconciously--not even scratching the surface of her power. His lip curls, and he stalls his movements, his wings wishing to grasp at his granddaughter's neck. Twist and snap the problem... Make it go away. Deimos calms his wings, however, and they rest at his side, shifting with great agitation. "Death did not want me. Hell could not contain me. If you wish to know the base of my existence, ask those dear old fairies that seem to follow us around. What they were able to do for me was the best thing of my life. But what they did to you--" he pauses, his eyes widening slightly seeing the boils starting to crawl up Harmonia's leg, almost as if she was unaware of what was happening to her. He trembles.
Fear?
No, Couldn't be.
"How could you unleash that thing upon the world?!" he says, spitting his distaste for the boils that were crawling up his own leg, reaching up out of the earth like a dead hand clawing out of a shallow grave. His wings release and spread again, as if trying to keep above water. With his form still in its creation, the boils popped and festered, bringing infection and sickness to his skin, plunging his reformation backward. He hissed, taking a step back. Ajatar. That nasty little thing. And his clueless Harmonia. "Is this your idea of a joke? Where is your magic to save yourself?!"
It doesn't take long for the boils to open and fester and for Harmonia to look down, half curious and half in pain, to see what was eating up her leg. She frowned then, unsure what to make of the sudden pox on her legs. It doesn't last very long, nor does it accompany much of her leg, and it's over almost as soon as it's begun. Still, the realization of what happened hovers in the air with a sense of dread and certainty.
Deimos is speaking, but Harmonia isn't quite listening. She's looking at the scaled girl next to her and the way she's standing. Shoulders back, ears pinned, head extended...well. Well! She forgets the oozing, bleeding wounds on her legs for a moment to revel in what she created.
Whos' the bottom feeder now, dad?
She snaps back to attention when he points out the sheer weaponized power of the little thing and her smile slides across her face, slow and steady. She sees opportunity suddenly - Harmonia does not know love of her offspring but for a moment...oh a long moment she feels something near affection in her heart. She turns to her father then and shrugs, speaking in her nonchalant way - "It seems that she stole it from me when the fairies gifted my magic back - troublesome thing. I suppose I must earn it back with hard work" - she laughs at this sentiment, content to be magicless if it meant this child was at her side. She possibilities open up in front of her and she sees them all with a sense of childlike wonder.
Destroy them all.
The child doesn't quite understand, it's not as though she's born with the sight to see her power and its limitations or extent. She knows only that she was angry, and something brewed under her skin and she unleashed it. She sees the pox but doesn't quite understand. It's enough to break her concentration to bring it back, and in doing so a few of her scales molt off and reveal blisters underneath. It's not the sickening pox on her mother and grandfather but it's a boil none the less. She is suddenly tired, too, and wishes to leave this place. HARMONIA the pied piper
Deimos has had enough.
His granddaughter is the cause of this discomfort, and yet, she stands, silent, emotionless. Ajatar. Nasty little thing. With a flick of his tail, his wings pump and stretch outward, as if voicing their agitation with this. the talons turn and scratch at the boils that threaten to burst and spread. drawing lines of fire across his body to cauterize the wound and to stem infection.
When he is finished, those great wings tuck themselves in once again, the 'hands' clasping together at the front of his chest, as if holding hands. "She is powerful, believe you me." He spares no artifice, no games. Harmonia's very presence here makes him itch, but she is every ounce his daughter, just as the one with her was every inch his blood as well. "She will be the true Reckoning of us all." He nods then, all trace of humor or obligatory evil put aside for the moment.
Right now he is a man, and a father--albeit a very absent one. He still has no need or want to make reparations or a relationship with this pair. But she is better than the games they play with the plebians that pass by them every day. So, he nods his head and flares his nostrils at them--almost an angry grunt--and turns toward the wind. His words were unaddressed, but it was clear to whom they were for--
--the child.
"When I see you next, I would hope that you will have controlled that little trick. Plaguing your family is not very nice... Not that I expect you will grow up as a child of the light."
Wings spread, and with a woomf he lifts that great black body into the sky.
There was much to do.
|
