maybe i should cry for help; erebor

[Kingslay]

KINGSLAY

It isn’t right.

He is not something to be caged. He isn’t made up of things that can be harnessed and used. He is wild like his mother. He is terrible like his father. He is a volatile combination of fire and greed and hunger. There is no room for loyalty beside the marrow in his bones. There is no room for kinship behind the bones of his ribcage.

It is their mistake.
It would be their regret, soon enough.

For now he is laying in wait. For now he is roaming the borders of the kingdom lighting fire to the trees and sending thick ash and smoke spiraling up into the sky like chimney stacks. For now he is ignoring the roaring ache of his gut, and the creatures screams for blood and flesh – but not forever.

The seconds are ticking.
The time is wasting away.

Every moment that she is not returned to him is a moment that he spends thinking of all the ways he could peel the flesh from their bones, exposed the yellowed fat and rotting guts beneath their surfaces. Every moment makes the charcoal skin along the ridge of his spine roll with agitation, and white-hot flame burst from the cracks along his body. Every moment makes the temperature in the air raise ever so slightly. Every moment brings him closer. Every moment makes him worse.

It isn’t right.
It’s their mistake.

They should have run.
They should have run like she did.

And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.

KINGSLAY BY NEVAEH | HTML BY MAAT | IMAGE © ILYA KISARADOV

[Erebor]

some are lost in the fire

some are built from it

It feels so right.

It's as though the world had turned in his absence, had decided to somersault and twist itself around, and by the time it landed had changed all the rules of time and space and physics. He wonders if the quest was part of it, or if it was part of the quest, or if they were simply unrelated, two moments in time, two points in space, passing close like a comet that never touches ground.

Perhaps, to some, what he had been through could be considered terrifying. And no doubt it was the stuff of nightmares, but night terrors have never been able to get hold of Erebor. He is the stalwart, the Spartan, the boy who never was a boy – who skipped straight to being a man, to being older and wiser and more dedicated than most anyone has any right to be. He is duty, he is honor – a strange duty and a twisted honor, because his only morality is the Chamber, but he is the personification of it nonetheless.

He feels the fire in his bones, even before it occurs to him to see who is setting it. He can feel the temperature changes now; they call to him with a strange magnetism. They eddy around him, tugging at his mind and beckoning. And what is he to do but go? What can he do but follow them out to the outskirts of the kingdom, out where he can smell the smoke grow thick, out where he can see the ashes rising up to the sky. He looks, and he feels no fear, because he knows no fire will level the kingdom so long as he is in it. He knows he can sap the flames from the trees – possibly not with the level of mastery he might one day attain, but with enough mastery that they will not destroy everything that they've worked so hard to rebuild.

It isn't until he gets closer that he recognizes the heat signature. He must have mistaken it for another part of the flames at first – he's still a novice and this horse seems to be very, very hot. When he gets closer, he begins to understand why. He can immediately see that he has at least some degree of kinship with this horse, whomever he may be. He sees the fires, feels the heat, and immediately sees opportunity.

You see, Erebor is not much of one to quibble with morality. He'd certainly rather the Chamber's trees be left alone, but the way this stallion is casually lighting them makes him certain that there's something to be learned here. To be sure, the trees are the least of Kingslay's crimes, but Erebor has no way of knowing that.

And even if he did, it wouldn't be enough to stop him.

He approaches, determined that this stallion will teach him, and unsure how to accomplish that goal. He approaches as an easy walk, watching the stallion. Erebor's coat is still its strange wine red, and his mane and tail remain thickly striped dark blue and dark green. It isn't easy to take him seriously like this, he knows. But still he approaches, almost as though magnetically drawn in. He watches for a moment as the stallion erupts into flames, calms the flames, and repeats the process. When he speaks, his usually confident voice is cloaked in a hint of awe. it is hushed, respectful, requesting rather than demanding.

"Who are you?"

He resists the obvious follow up - what are you – and he wonders if, whatever it is, he's becoming one himself.

erebor

heat manipulating lord of the chamber

warship x straia