C O R R U P T E D.

he, at once, stiffens, growing tall underneath that positive praise from his patron. there is a BRIGHTNESS to his glow, a lilt to his being as he looks up to him with a small smile, the very image of a child being encouraged. upon the inquiry, however, he but tilts his head, his brow creasing ( if but subtly ) as his hands wander instinctively to touch those feathered, pale arms, as if to COMFORT himself. his response is quiet, but Aatrox can hear, yes, that statement carried clearly across this still air.

     “ to be with you, and Rakan. to gain as much power, even more than what is possible … to change the universe as you wish to. is that not what i should be AMBITIOUS for, father ? ”

"Someone, wise enough, told me I am alive now, not in my past. You're my present, conceived unexpectedly as a miracle. Destiny never granted me such a blessing as an offspring, not as a man, as a god neither. I never thought I'd be a father and now, in my most horrendous form, you were born. You're no target of my inner loathe, my hatred, anymore since you didn't ask to exist, to be born and I never asked for my fate."

the words bring him out of his previous reverie and the child lifts that angelic head, his gaze looking towards that great beast as a halo of that previous WONDER fills that face, the ghost of the mere youth he truly is returning to that corrupted body, to those cursed eyes. he is aglow as he stands from his sitting position, the sword falling unattended to the grassy forest floor as he steps towards his father, hesitating only briefly before grasping that dark armor, a wane, but joyous smile upon those bowed lips.

send hearts // *accepting. ( @voidbornriven i pray for your health wiven ;; v ;; )

💙 - family

the child is unsure of the connotation of this particular approach, for he is unsure of many things having to do with this particular individual who smells of EMPTINESS and VOID. a friend of the lhotlan, a fellow guardian, one who knows of his dark upbringing and his even darker present, an individual who wields great magicks and yet shows softness, even affection towards a cursed being such as himself. it fills him with . . . a strange, pleasant feeling. a feeling of WANT, of being WANTED. the same feeling he achieves when being praised by Aatrox ( and . . . perhaps . . . when he is shown affection from HIM, that vastayan ).

send hearts // *accepting. ( @decaying-flesh )

💙 - family 

and, as quickly as it had overcome his being, his senses, it departs, leaving the darkchild limp upon the forest ground, those fingers stained with his own, inky, dried blood, that gaze dazed on the leafy, forest ground and the sword that lay upon it, unassuming. his fingers curl, the crunching of dried leaves crumbling between those fingers not enough to cover the noise of struggling breath, the exertion of simply moving his body, of lifting himself from the ground as he muffles the noise of a dry sob. 

it hurts. it hurts so much, and yet he must endure.

he stands. he lifts his blade, his whole body leaning with the weight of the weapon in hand. he takes a shaky breath, a fluttering noise that sounds akin to a bird taking flight, those wings ( now less of their angelic appearance, more alike to the DARKIN within ) lifting as he closes his eyes.

“Careful child,” Riven growled, her playful statute quickly dissolving at the aggressive movement. With a flick of her fingers, her own blade appeared in her hand, the massive sword sinking deep into the ground with a simple fluid motion. “If you challenge me I will put you in your place.” The air around them darkened, wisps of hollowed magic humming dangerously in the air as Riven continued to glare angrily at the being in front of her.  

Then, just as suddenly as the anger came it was gone.

Riven’s fingers were no longer curled around her blade’s hilt. Instead, she was leaning against the obsidian blade, her form lazy and relaxed.  “Now tell me, why do you speak so terribly of your mortal father. From what I have heard it was by his intervention that saved you from your sire’s wrath.”

the darkchild takes a step back as he is suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of strong magicks, a small, involuntary growl making its way from the back of his throat, rumbling into the air in front of him ( his self control, shattered ). he brandishes that sword despite his instinct to run, mentally subduing his inner MORTAL fears. he is POWERFUL, he is a son of AATROX.

and then, as suddenly as the magic had came it was gone.

the son moves, watching carefully as that being moves to lean against the sword, no longer threatening, no longer poised. he does not lower his own weapon, his very self still tense with the act of fight. he bares his teeth at the question, a glowering gaze breaking through that stoic expression.

Riven laughed, a bright grin lighting up her face at his continued weariness - not that she could wholly blame him, she was a being of the void after all. A bit of caution was always good to have. “My name is Riven, young darkin.” She offered him a polite bow.

“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

he hesitates, a heavy pause laden with his dubious doubt, those eyes narrowing as the other being laughs ( . . . laughter ? was that necessary for this situation ? why does one laugh ? ) and he watches as she then bows. an act of politeness, from what he understands. of respect. he bows his head in return, a subtle gesture, it seemed appropriate.