12-10-2017, 02:03 PM
We cast a long shadow, sucking all the cold beneath
He does not care for boundaries, for limitations.
His legs carry him wherever his whim does desire, and despite the heavy, acid-laced warning of his mother to steer clear of what was not his own, he goes wherever he pleases. She did not want him going too far until he is grown – until she has shown him the hunt; but she is not at all aware that he is is the hunt. The sunlight cannot reach him in the dark shadow of the woodland, and he is bored of the splendor of scarlet and gold and he is tired of darkness. She warned him not to go north, and so naturally, it is north that he chooses to go – venturing to betray the promise he had made to her; daring to disobey the one who had given him life (the one who could take it away, without sorrow, without shedding a single tear).
The excellence that he does find just beyond the border is enough to take his breath away, if only for a moment. A sweeping valley of rolling hilltops, with the shadow of copious boulders to dot the landscape – it goes as far as the eye can see, and it is not at all like the density of the forest he is so used to. It is not at all like anything he has seen, and the wicked smile drawn to his lips is as youthful as it is insidious. Moving seamlessly through the thicket, he pursues the boundary line, never crossing it but terribly tempted to do so. A glance is thrown over his shoulder – had his mother followed him?
Would Thana know her only son had crossed into the northern kingdom; to where she knew Ivar kept his domicile? Little did he know the doubt she held in her chest when she looked upon the spawn expelled from her womb. With vivid darkness of his red eye color, he could belong to Gryffen, the one and only she had ever desired to bear young for – but with the sheathing of scales across his youthful hide, and the sharpness of his teeth, he could belong to Ivar. The one she had shed blood with; the one she had taken the seed of with no pleasure of her own to speak of.
She knew the red eye was not enough to secure the thought of Gryffen being his father.
(in her mind, he does not belong to Gryffen at all – he is a monster, like Ivar, and born with the dark red eye that could be from her own father, Offspring – and Gryffen is nothing at all to him, but she can pretend - they can pretend).
But Dante does not know any of the truth hidden behind his mother’s sharp tongue and harsh lashing.
He only knows that what he is told he cannot do, he surely must.
It is not long until the scent of another envelopes him, luring the predator inside of him out, stirring a craving he does not understand and cannot comprehend. His dark roving eye traces the silhouette of her body (small, lithe – he could take her, he could take her, but why?). He does not understanding the yearning coiled inside of his belly, but it pulls him closer to her, and her soft whimper and plea only serves to strengthen his instinct to –
(drown her)
What?
”Are you lost?” he muses quietly, with a subtle smile tugging at his lips. Wide-eyed and curious, he is nothing more than a charming boy stumbling across a frightened girl. A beautiful girl. She is dark and lovely; and almost ethereal in a way he cannot describe. He is too young to understand the stirring inside of his belly (the butterflies – and despite his instinct to destroy her, he also longs to protect her, and thus he is torn). ”Don’t be scared; where are you from? My name is Dante.”
The devil reborn.
His legs carry him wherever his whim does desire, and despite the heavy, acid-laced warning of his mother to steer clear of what was not his own, he goes wherever he pleases. She did not want him going too far until he is grown – until she has shown him the hunt; but she is not at all aware that he is is the hunt. The sunlight cannot reach him in the dark shadow of the woodland, and he is bored of the splendor of scarlet and gold and he is tired of darkness. She warned him not to go north, and so naturally, it is north that he chooses to go – venturing to betray the promise he had made to her; daring to disobey the one who had given him life (the one who could take it away, without sorrow, without shedding a single tear).
The excellence that he does find just beyond the border is enough to take his breath away, if only for a moment. A sweeping valley of rolling hilltops, with the shadow of copious boulders to dot the landscape – it goes as far as the eye can see, and it is not at all like the density of the forest he is so used to. It is not at all like anything he has seen, and the wicked smile drawn to his lips is as youthful as it is insidious. Moving seamlessly through the thicket, he pursues the boundary line, never crossing it but terribly tempted to do so. A glance is thrown over his shoulder – had his mother followed him?
Would Thana know her only son had crossed into the northern kingdom; to where she knew Ivar kept his domicile? Little did he know the doubt she held in her chest when she looked upon the spawn expelled from her womb. With vivid darkness of his red eye color, he could belong to Gryffen, the one and only she had ever desired to bear young for – but with the sheathing of scales across his youthful hide, and the sharpness of his teeth, he could belong to Ivar. The one she had shed blood with; the one she had taken the seed of with no pleasure of her own to speak of.
She knew the red eye was not enough to secure the thought of Gryffen being his father.
(in her mind, he does not belong to Gryffen at all – he is a monster, like Ivar, and born with the dark red eye that could be from her own father, Offspring – and Gryffen is nothing at all to him, but she can pretend - they can pretend).
But Dante does not know any of the truth hidden behind his mother’s sharp tongue and harsh lashing.
He only knows that what he is told he cannot do, he surely must.
It is not long until the scent of another envelopes him, luring the predator inside of him out, stirring a craving he does not understand and cannot comprehend. His dark roving eye traces the silhouette of her body (small, lithe – he could take her, he could take her, but why?). He does not understanding the yearning coiled inside of his belly, but it pulls him closer to her, and her soft whimper and plea only serves to strengthen his instinct to –
(drown her)
What?
”Are you lost?” he muses quietly, with a subtle smile tugging at his lips. Wide-eyed and curious, he is nothing more than a charming boy stumbling across a frightened girl. A beautiful girl. She is dark and lovely; and almost ethereal in a way he cannot describe. He is too young to understand the stirring inside of his belly (the butterflies – and despite his instinct to destroy her, he also longs to protect her, and thus he is torn). ”Don’t be scared; where are you from? My name is Dante.”
The devil reborn.
DANTE
but there’s a reason a killer is a lover with a knife in its teeth
@[Deiti]