[ The doubts crawl, like beetles below a thin layer of sand.
It is difficult, for such a selfish god, to take time away from attending to his own vulnerabilities to watch over his own. They are losing Meridian, he has seen many of them turned and swayed, darkened and lost to acceptance, to the urge to allow all things to pass into the shadow, and create anew. Even Set considers it, in a way that is distinct from all else — save, for perhaps Quetzalcoatl and Voryn; he is endeared to Zenith, promised to its Lady, yet he disdains them. Their dream to create new life is a lie, pitiable and insulting in the same vein.
He would much rather embody purity of entropy, the beauty in the heat death of the universe. Mortals are disgusting little things, that think themselves capable of divinity — they think they can attain the perfection required of them to create, and the idea of it enrages him. Captured between Meridian's light and Zenith's dark, he is maddened by his own authority, his ego battered by another's hands and contempt of all others palpable. ]
Get up.
[ He seizes at the crown of Voryn's head, fisting his fingers in the sheet of beautiful, scattered hair to wrench his head up and away from the dirt he had been digging in. They are ailing and weak, plagued by their own madnesses, and he will not see Voryn Dagoth broken and yielded to Zenith, if he must sacrifice himself to assure it.
He drags Voryn's head back, forces his spine to bow and leans over him — biting rough and ferocious against the chimer's mouth, tasting sap instead of blood, dragging nails along his skin as if he can dig beyond flesh and force Meridian's light into him. ]
VORYN.
It is difficult, for such a selfish god, to take time away from attending to his own vulnerabilities to watch over his own. They are losing Meridian, he has seen many of them turned and swayed, darkened and lost to acceptance, to the urge to allow all things to pass into the shadow, and create anew. Even Set considers it, in a way that is distinct from all else — save, for perhaps Quetzalcoatl and Voryn; he is endeared to Zenith, promised to its Lady, yet he disdains them. Their dream to create new life is a lie, pitiable and insulting in the same vein.
He would much rather embody purity of entropy, the beauty in the heat death of the universe. Mortals are disgusting little things, that think themselves capable of divinity — they think they can attain the perfection required of them to create, and the idea of it enrages him. Captured between Meridian's light and Zenith's dark, he is maddened by his own authority, his ego battered by another's hands and contempt of all others palpable. ]
Get up.
[ He seizes at the crown of Voryn's head, fisting his fingers in the sheet of beautiful, scattered hair to wrench his head up and away from the dirt he had been digging in. They are ailing and weak, plagued by their own madnesses, and he will not see Voryn Dagoth broken and yielded to Zenith, if he must sacrifice himself to assure it.
He drags Voryn's head back, forces his spine to bow and leans over him — biting rough and ferocious against the chimer's mouth, tasting sap instead of blood, dragging nails along his skin as if he can dig beyond flesh and force Meridian's light into him. ]