#cerspheus

Red is the river's source, my dear Fish. You claim to be so mightily of noble tides, yet I know truly in your depths it is but a vain wish. For there is nothing but mud and blood caked on your sides. Woven in the midst of silver scales and blue, the rush of white stretches forth to further anchor you, dragging you from the waters to the dirt my dear. The Nothing has taken to the river in which you it would appear, ushering from you a single shutter as it shakes your core. For only then, has it stolen your previous ore. The golden gleam of the treasure so sacredly you would guard, so easily foiled by something of the Gods' divine creation. As simple - look here- as a single flip of a card. Foolishly mingling within one endless fool's damnation. Twirling and swirling, there's great magical tricks, a fool I must be, but don't you dare blame me for all of this. "Magic Man", by the tongues of lost few I am called, tearing into my very soul, for there's a crowd I must awe. Some animals, peoples, or some strange entities alike, no matter my play, I am never faulty for one Gods' spite. I'd perhaps wish to be free from your bloody jurisdiction, only here with you I am left, left with an obscure addiction to your relentless sense of malice, scorn, and an endless pain that appears to only be ushered in a vain woman's name. No, my dear silver fish, we are both here for some reason. It matters not if there is little within these moments to gain. Careless of the ceaseless change of seasons, restless in time, as it passes we all learn from our unspoken and thought crimes. You see, for the Nothing will never cease The Death's bidding, nor its power matched as it bends to no other soul. As the nights pass, I feel some part of us winning, working together and forming allegiance through many lives, never quitting, fighting, and holding some focus to a goal to alter the tides, and what have anchored us to this place, ceaselessly spinning, caught in the rapids current. Red is the River's Source, my dear fish, in all regards, and be I something much stronger than you, teeth and claws, to you I am a prisoner, and I will never be a guard. The Nothing will bow you so low, gracelessly you're in his maw, silver staining crimson like rivers flow, you'll find him grinning. The last sight you'll see, as I'm set free, yet hunted again, tell me my dear Fish, will you willing pay for twice the sin?

Space is cruel, as it is unforgiving, albeit beautiful. Choking the senses, halting a single scream or any sound - what for? Simply because nothing can be heard, for it is too far, too wide, and much too complicated to usher a cry. The cold embrace of a world that had been close to home, no more, no more, as she crushes my bones, offers no light to this darkness, not even the stars seem to shine. Crimson bellowing where there is no gravity nor wind, I'm simply reminded that its freezing in the heavens. There is no warmth travelling world to world, one must simply anchor themselves to the ground, and pray they never move, that the stars won't find them. Like the many eyes they are, they're always watching. Vindictive, judgmental, aye - this is the truth.

Once a carcass, bone weaved with nothing but thorns, I lie here truly, dead, and by the elements seemingly so torn, seemingly I embrace nothing as memory may come, elicit the heat of once a woman, held close and smothered once before my defeat. Only a fragment, I see this reflection in nothing, no more, no more, I am a knight only in the woven silk of bone, with no settled score. To ask oneself, who am I? Perhaps a compilation of shards and so, nothing and everything that I always will and never quite know. I'd like to say I love you, as I'd like to say I once loved myself, however I know this is a brutal lie, by no beck and call will help arrive. Nor can I take after it, as the brambles smother my core, and I am left helpless, shackled like a slave to death and war. Again, these pictures that haunt me relentlessly, an omen that can leave the happiest of men haunted and ever so solemn, things that paint a scar on the mind that one may never forget, alas so complicated that no bard could ever hope to sing, elicit applauds and understanding from the folks of towns and squares, there wouldn't quite be any faith, nor would they find it to care. To myself only may I sing, no satisfaction ever does this bring. For what good are songs with no sound, only the disturbance of being that the wind, or perhaps brush of the animal that may disturb slumber, but it is not beautiful, and it is quite hasty, as time does number of things that death itself originally could not. No dreams come my way, only what the dust and wind that dares to tell the very sum of my life and my tales upon its very inconsistent, yet ever true entity. Perhaps only by the stories of others, grim or dark, I reach my clarity. Reflection, a mirror and fraction of the same coin, my hollow eyes do see over yonder. Still I wonder, is it death in some disguise or perhaps myself, or another I witness. Not so shackled desperately to the woods and vines, nor pierced with arrow to resemble dreadfully the anguish of the last lived breath. Nor cradled by the woman's memory, never quite sure she existed in the first place, or if my masculinity was only fractured its very self in death, that it may be best to earn a new philosophy of one's older existence, to begin anew. Whatever self it must be, I cling to them so feverishly, weak as bones, so old and in pain, more than friends, and akin to a lover's woes. Who am I to say, what is what in these affairs, when I am left to clinging arms of the trees themselves? Where no birds are singing, no bells ringing, not even to warrant that my death was considered in the mourning of man, or if everything is truly lost to just the wind, dirt, leaves and sand. While they may hold, to them I do not offer the same affection, merely I reach my arms to my opposite, turning my back in aggression of my oppressor of this time. While I hold myself - or this lover - in memory of feeling, indulging, and reveling in the warmth of another. As if life was on the grasp, and I were not lost in shadows, not quite. Proof that I haven't quite lost this never ending fight. Not yet, not yet. Yet which am I? Which, which, which? Pawns in the game, but the game hasn't been set. Not yet, not yet.

Is this the sea, I see, glimmering above? Trapped in darkness I wonder and rove, forgetting on the surface for what I strove. Intricately, below I look up to the surface, where waves reflect only the stars and its own distinct colours of a blue and white face. What may rest in her core, is a mystery to all. Yet I know much more, for within the tides is the very daughter once of my flawed creation, and now she lie inward to rest with crustacean. While her brother may cease her tides, as the water evaporates with only a hiss. What in the names of many Gods, could do this? It is not I, for I am trapped and bound, in the shadows not of Dark Reaches, but keen to observe progress behind this peculiar shroud. I see these worlds rotate, each and all, her brother forcing waves closer to surface unseen, while the moon shard makes currents unsettled. One force making them bellow and cry, in rage unsatisfactory as they know that as the time goes by, she is merely bound by shallow graves, this invisible cage that has turned her into liquid and manifest of once star-lit shine. Not of the stars, but of their longing, for the great expanse that life stirs, and not the dark insides of hers. Deep within her core, I presume there is more life than we could ever tell. That there are both great beings of intellect, but with no legs they have fin or a tail. There are scars still within this earth, but it sooner exposes some core, and from this core would more primordial things form from the depths migrating to coasts. Rumours of illusions, beings that may be living but at other times are only seen as ghosts. Things that sing songs, bear great lights and many teeth like the Devourer himself. Who is to say, that she herself does not mold her beasts from the black, cooled, and soaked sands? That each grain marks ever dent, every feature, much alike a being forged from only a rock, or something that blend and becomes at one with such a thing. For no matter how insane, each action is presented solely as a gift stands. So why not now, as I feel a great pride for her, that she has done something I cannot through ages and has created her own world of manifest. No sir could ever court her now, but she sustains life in her core and upon the lands, and she is relied heavily upon as she is worshiped, to end any strife that her absence or even her beasts may cause. There are many more stories of my daughter and her seas, than what ever scourge and taints become of me. From this distance I can hear songs, of monsters who sink ships, and others who bait men for their wrongs. Lovers from other worlds, who try to be yet drown. How lovers have even tried to weave water itself into some wedding gown. How they feel Gods may settle in waters and come alive, or how its all pretense and the water is only for travel. Some believe it's all just a lie. So contradictory, and in the days of Genesis the Dreamer had set his race by the sea. They fought monsters, and some had even presumed they fled his thoughts into the very waters she wrought. While I believe there's much more to this, and she is not bent on destruction as her shard had been. She built them a place within her core, and brought sanctuary and peace away from shore. A kind heart, and merciful to this day, I feel Mercy itself should revoke its name and instead leave the position for my daughter. Who I still miss and mourn, and sit in my darkness on no stead but my own. How I wish to hold her in my arms but one more time, before returning to this dark and cold. In a way I know what it is, that these others feel as they look upon the seas from ships or shore. I have no lovers in the sea, nor do I wish to find monsters or be seduced by their songs. Although I know well still, the dances my daughter would dance and the very songs she had taught her own children. How I would give to see lights in the sky bellow, when she had not been forged into sea by my sins. A father would do anything for his child, this much is always true. Yet I cannot find it within myself to give myself forgiveness for all I've done such. I am like my son, in this way, arrogance fading into bitterness each soulless day. As a star being I pray for her still, not for the Gods, but only with my very will. That she may live once more, or find harmony in these recesses of her own it seems. In those distant waters do I see much of myself, and more of her - and I know she does not hold blame, while scars of her fractured nature still hold far off the shores of these many worlds. I would do much more, if I could, even pull apart my gold insides and bestow her with treasures which they even sing about this too. Yet I know, by the time it would reach her it would no longer shine. There would be no one to guard it quite so, unless another monster comes to mingle with other rhymes. Perhaps some maidens who had failed to make their gowns of water, or some others who have drowned. They would be the ones who guarded the life of her father, in some sense. To have a part of me with her still. Alas, I am stuck so far away with nothing to keep my musing at bay. Not even the crimson cloak serves as highlight ever since, it is seen as blood and there are no waves to wash it away. If I listen closely, as I always do, I intend to hear from her. Only then will I move, then will I be so very far away, from the universe I failed to this very day.

Carefully I look still, as every progress sets itself upon the construct of even the most invisible foundations. Intricate nerves of dust, sand, compensating for once had been viewed as solely chaotic sinew in the heavens sea of stars. What was once live had hence turned to bones, crevices forming deeply as the world bears scars. For what we are, but worlds forced into physical form, like I always have been; does the world not live and breathe as we do? Treatment so brutal breaking down what had been thought set as stone, as some other party reaps what it sows countless times in this dis-assorted rubble and mess. What truly is this progress, we speak so fondly of? Does it involve the evolution of the mind, or perhaps the flesh that embodies? Or is it like I, who comes from Dark Reaches, in soul advances as even in ruin can a sliver of hope still shine. So what do we think, of living beings and stances? Perhaps they will be known through lore, praised and regarded, or perhaps like dust soon forgotten. To impede on progress, as I had once done, I only can wish to fade. To be dust, at once my own sins washed away by the unforgiving and cold winds that mark a fleeting legend upon us in harmony. Aye, I was born where time was not of importance, that things were a standstill and by transcending one's nature they'd find themselves in accordance in a new world, perhaps another Universe. Where sometimes stars would shine in inversion, and others brightly still. Much akin to light houses, and the flurry of ships, much different than home and there. Different than behemoths and leviathans, no shimmer in fins or maws, but something more like heart and claws. Living essence, that breathes only a sliver, to allow us the need to travel and expand horizons, while some of us take heart to tell our tales, and others simply just strive to survive. For progress is interpretive, as everything I find. There is no distinction in what it means, or how one sees it, but simply in words they'll define. I come from a place with little to no light, to weave and linger while most are unwelcome. In a sense I have created my own life, and ushered them to a lie. For them to fight and see what it is to progress, but in this long and strenuous tale - I soon digress. Here I stand, where there was once just dust and bone, and I see many a specimen that hadn't been here before. To see the sightless skull sculpted into beautiful sights of what a city may bear and all its galore. To see planks molded into something more, and to see life in even the lifeless areas. Toxic, fresh, the inconsistency weaving into one single entity. Perhaps I am foolish, to see this in such a way. For what was I, time ago, but a shadow driven himself too far that he is still lost to this day? That I, myself, have become inverted too. Shackled to this city, it is in no shock that here I'm given my second chance to revel and thrive. To move on to some better world, the soul itself progressing with all else in this bitter end. For an end is also too the beginning of another tale. I am dust upon some wind, who sets flight to another sail. There is a part to play in the progress of All. Be not fooled for a moment - this is not the Gods game to play. Everything, always, sets its gait this day. The moment it stumbles, the moment it lives. This - despite their cruelty - is the greatest gift the Gods and Goddesses can ever give. Think upon it truly, and know that even in the most corrosive of tiles, and tilted foundations in you, you progress truly to your salvation.

In the distance I see One Eye gleam, unbound from the shackles that kept him, while here I am torn asunder by seams, I cry for mercy and ask once more of friendship and what time had been spent, in loss of memory and what tragedy kept this cycle never to reach its means. My maw is gaped, and here I bleed Gold, and he and this council watch onward both the new and those deemed so old, to where there is little caring and everything has been washed away. Rational thought swept like sand. Sand is in time, gold itself too, comparable to what ebbs from veins, as I drown within a bloods pool, a slaughtered beast with no reins, no matter how much I cry I do not beg, for this is in itself has me crave, and here I'd lose a hand, arm, leg - than to give into such anguish, to turn into the very simple things I once had sought to vanquish. At first this was a beheading, but one God had played upon mercy in this very motion I was regretting, death would be some release to this, and darkness would dull such anguish, taking me back to shadow catharsis. Where my very being is inverted instead and I am shackled with judgement left as I am converted. From darkness I am now of light, and instead of bleeding gold I now bleed black, horrible sight. For I am now not I, one of shade birthed by darkness and forged to something with light only forbade. To my nature was I left in past, and for it would I be grateful were my dark nature allowed to last. This is not the case, screaming I fight to not beg for death, my blood creeps forward seething, as gold stains the air and is then gathered, to be brought forward and thrown onto my very self again. The light caresses me, as the shadow is frozen but a moment before it shatters, leaving me on the gallows but it is not my head that rewards, only the humiliation of the council, their laughs seeping through boards much akin to my blood. Combination of wood and other material faces its own intricate desolation, my blood tarnishes its surface, and it is left cracked and broken, much seeming to my very skin. I have no strength to question, they all watch me with amusement, and entertainment at punished sin. Only once did they mention my kin, the child that had spoken of rule, to say I was King of Universe? Or so I sought to be, a lying soul was he I taught ever so long ago. I am punished as Deceiver, meddler, and this all is a fatal blow. Home is no longer, and the dark of my essence tuns to scars, suffering and surrounding I hark. My tongue and inside was once gold, of silver-tongue it once boasted too, now all has been plundered and sold, for not my tongue is black. Clever wit and charming, manipulating, arrogance, one could say that this ended all of it. Humiliation tarnished my soul, my will, and my very skin and its qualities, now turned in the course of those ill. A price to be paid for crimes, One Eye still in the distance and watching, not speaking as his friend may die. For what judgement did I ear this? Altered with nothing but unspoken words and a single hiss. Do I deserve this cruelty? Evolved into a creature I was not, identity lost as around the Gods it revolved. There was no mercy, despite motives, and how they took glory in torment the judges of continually boasted of their unique sentence without the Oracle of their own eye and affinity. This was their thought, theirs alone, and no one would dare forsake rule, ensnared and bound in their abode. While I was reminded I bear the light and black scars, and never was I to be a shadow anymore, more to behold, in my sockets of once lustrous gold did they take two emerald and bore it into my very eyes, forced sight and pain ebbing further in my soul. As a shadow, I had seen far and wide, but now with new eyes I writhe, and these green spectacles I am blind. Drowning in a pool of what was once my blood, when I was of darkness, while now I bleed black in absence of interior and exterior meshed, no longer is there self balance. They leave me with so little, but the cloth of crimson, comfort although my will is none but brittle. To hide the ugly black scars I now bear, once beautiful gold sigils I bore proudly jutting from here, there, and everywhere. Now it is only the gold and light that leaves me beautiful and to swindle the masses, not my nature in which they spat. Impulse and arrogance now seemingly defines, but there is much more to it, and silver tongue can still be in black, speaking lies. I leave as something new, lost and undone, but I am son to Survivalist and promise, anything I can live and become. I swore never to be a puppet, I leave the council and mocking faces of Gods, this oath I keep, and still I believe, I am the creator of a Genesis, and I do much more than just Deceive.

Climbing up the mountain, there are no banners signifying a House in the confines of some great citadel, nor are there steps carved for an easy passage. One would think that this place, of all places, would be where a knight would go to slay the dragon. To free the princess from her cage, and among these deep slopes would the knight in question descend from this pedestal and obtain their prize in mention. Only, there was no prize here, nor princess nor knight. Perhaps, at one point Cerspheus had been (and the only name Bene is only a whisper on the wind, and it plagues the cold air as a grim reminder of past), only now to be presented as the False King. Once a symbol of an honourable King who inspired hope and change, a sense of reason in their chaos of restarting foundations, he was now scorned and mocked in the presence of the New King. It was only reasonable, was it not? For something of high stature and promise to be cut down, as all that had been done had been undone within a single instant. The lion had been skinned, and the dragon had soon taken its place on another pedestal, this one long forsaken. So where does the lion's pelt wind up, if not in the hands of those with a higher sum to offer than the house of which they belonged? Into the paws of some greater beast, and indeed, had it been left to rot on this dragon's former pedestal. The great monster itself lie dormant in their realms capital, while the hide was said to come alive like clockwork. Life breathed into the shed skin, an embodiment of some shadow that had refused to fall with the rise and fall of the sun. In such a case, it had become the sun, and shone like the gold that once had been reflective in its maw. The symbol of the house, and likewise embodiment of the very torment that plagued the False King's mind, for what was more suited for a confrontation of courage? It wasn't as if he was craven fool, or stricken with poor conduct, but he could not face the dragon on his own. Nor would he suffice to allow his brother, his twin, to slay the beast. He could only find redemption in fighting his own demon before he could march to war, to fight alongside his own army and kin. The death of his so called father (but was it his father, or just some nightmare that feasted upon his mind?) would be his only sense of salvation. In a way, slaying his own dragon, so that he may go on to serve with both its ferocity and its armour. No doubt, he was a lion, but this pride, in metaphorical and literal sense, was not quite his. Always would the fangs manage to pierce through his own shield, his own flesh, humiliating him and reminding him that he was no higher than the common man. The man had given hope to the realm, and yet within the False King's self did he fail to inspire. Following into the shadowed depth, and only enabling his soldiers to fight for little less than a constellation. He swore that he would protect them, and give him blessings that not even Gods could offer. Here he stand, however, at the base of these peaks looking upward to where he'd find this golden hide. His cape bellows, not of stars, but a lone crimson that stains the dark. For how was he to allow his brother to march into the battlefield and take claim to the death of what brought the ever looming nothing that circled among these kingdoms? To allow him to be credited of the New King's fall, and the end of this seeming tyranny and lack of resolve? They were mirrors, him and his brother, and he stole not only his glory, but his face and very being within the moment some king slayer sought to strike. Settling old debts, and fighting for something more than gold and honour, yet still Cerspheus feels every bit of dignity seeping away at the thought. He had struggled far to make it to this point, only to have another looming obstacle to clamber over. He was a lion, much like the one that lie in wait atop this rock-face. He is not alone in this place cloaked with mist and the clouds that threaten to snow, for behind him is his very reflection - better suited in a more appropriate set of armour, and upon an even better steed. While the False King's own horse remain bear, dismounted, and only kept close with the occasional tug of the reigns by his brother's hands. The False King knows not if he has brought his mirror here now, as a sense of support that may grasp him at the bottom of these ledges if he were ever to fail and fall with the great beast in tow. Or if it was to give partial reassurance that he would not be starting this war without him, and settling old debts that had been vowed so long ago. They are mirrors, and yet their armour is not. His brother's is like a star among this dark ruin, forged of silver and intricate gold, a crimson cape akin to his own upon his back. His, nearly inverted, made of crude black ore with its own gold linings that attempted to bear resemblance of his twin's own design. One the light, one the shadow, as it were. It was only natural that the shadow were to descend further into the darkness, perhaps immersing himself in what he had claimed to be a part of in their world full of myth and magic. Cerspheus had been called many things, besides the False King, and a shadow was one of them. As was the renowned title of King-Queen, to which he strode with the tenacity of a man, and the ferocity of a woman. Seemingly inter-changeable, he was like the savage's had said. Long in his life did he walk between two worlds and had been something different than the Gods themselves, so he would prove it. For the sake of those who still put their faith in an old monarch, and hold him to his grace. For the soldiers that had sworn themselves to him both inside and outside of battle. For his brother, who watch him depart with only a sad nod of recognition, but primarily for himself. To settle the score to the very thing that had crippled him through these years of a short (but longer than thought) life-line. The name of the Lion would no longer be within death, and the constant revitalisation of an abandoned pelt. Cerspheus steps away from his brother, away from their steeds, and closer to the rock-face he must climb. Like these long-lost spoken tales of past lives, and the visions that the two had of children in their life among the stars, he is left to immerse himself within the abyss of fear and darkness its very self. Slowly he feels himself creeping into this place between realms that he was said to walk as a child, and indeed his soul was sensitive to what was about him. What his eye did not see, his body, his mind and even gut could feel. The very reason he had left the steed behind, for this was a feat one must forgo by oneself. His own feet and grasp of his hands was much more reliable in the darkness, and on the face of rock than a clumsy and spooked animal. If the claws of the beast who played his father did not force him off its peak, the horse would not even halfway up the climb. Indeed, this seemed to be the case, as invisible assailants seemed to tear at the fibers of his spirit. Whispering his old name, and reminding him of every tragic moment that may cause him to stumble and wallow in self-destruction first, but then a single warning to not transgress upon the fractured peaks. Everything is but a grim reminder, and the wind stings his bare face (a helmet was deemed too risky for such a climb), and for a moment it feels as if some phantom force claws its way through his skin. Anything to still the man, to invoke some pain to ground him, yet still, the False King climbs up this mountain. He even whispers on his breath, to these invisible spirits and the harsh winds, "This mountain is as false as I am. It shall do you no good to try to ground me, for even in the heavens, you know both of us do not exist." And this was true, in a way. What was everything, but a large tale to another story? There had been myths to explain their worlds, as it was, and if he was indeed walking in some mid-realm, it confirmed the uncertainty that fed into every man's heart. Cerspheus knows that they all exist on the whim of a higher power, if not their very wills themselves. His will, like a flame, had not yet died despite it's flickering nature. He would persevere. Who was to say how much time had passed, and by what pace of which the False King had went? For soon the sight of his brother and their horses were long gone, smothered by a thick blanket of fog. Which, in the slightest moment did seem to embody the spectres that pursued him through this personal endeavor. Nothing is visible to him but the rock in which he climbs, and for once he finds himself yearning for the sight of some banner or torch, to show some sign of civilisation, even if it were to be of a warring house. A human soul, at least, could be something of an honourable match. While a beast was only a mark of brutality and vigor alone, and there was no wit, nor honour to be gathered from slaying such a thing. For while they had sung songs about such a thing, the cost of the story was never worth the price paid, and always was something lost within the encounter. Cerspheus would redeem his lost courage, and perhaps earn something else from this encounter. No honour, he swore, for this day he would lose a father, and like his father would he be a murderer of kin. All the same, the man finds himself searching for some source of light, straining to keep his sights up above and not below. A single search of the mists below would force his heart to his throat, and his gut would churn as his conscience force him to listen on a whim to the invisible forces that shroud him. Too easily would it be for this gloved hand to lose its grasp, to be rid of this cold stone. It was just as simple to imagine some variation of himself falling from the side of the mountain, following no steps, nor grasp of rock, and pressed on his back as crushed armour jut into his spine. Death would be quick, but it would be unwelcome, and fear threatened to grip this former monarch. He's reminded of a single phrase, not all cats land on their feet. Even in weakness he pushes himself, and further does he ascend. Time is no longer of essence, and his mind is forced into bitter neutrality as he attempts to keep his bearings. The armour weighs him down, but somehow he succeeds through this painful struggle to reach the very top of this peak. He hoists himself clumsily, and weakly to what could only be deemed as a some-what level surface. Cerspheus had gone through much, to just give up on the very edge of the peak, and yet he finds himself lying flat on his armoured stomach for a time. Moments pass, and the whispers seem to have given up their onslaught, and they with these invisible entities disappear in the mists that cling heavily to the land. His cheek brushes against the cold, ragged ground for just a moment, before he forces himself to his feet. It was too cold to be idle, and he still has his task at hand. Only after a small glimpse to where the surface of the ground should be, to where his brother should have already set camp, does he set off to find the pelt of the skinned lion. His blade his drawn, as is his shield, and in mockery does it bear the very symbol of the lion itself. He represents his house, it is only just, and was it not his father's own misdeeds that had brought them to face each other here, this night? Assuming it is night, for no stars shine, and it is likely the very sky itself is still clouded. Snow still threatens to fall, and yet it still hasn't found the means. Possibly  afraid to cling to a place as foreboding as this, and the spirits needed no more incentive to thrive within this mid-realm than they already had. To tempt them with water, in solid or liquid state, would simply be more torment. The False King does not doubt that they curse the Gods, and in doing such, their Gods had forsaken them. It is only in little mercy that their penalty is not made worse while condemned to this isolated and separate realm from their own. Poor for the spirits, but he knows very well a snow is ill suited for a lion. It could easily work in his favour. A miserable existence, the man thinks, as he wanders this plateau, searching for even the smallest shimmer of light. A golden lion, and only in its death would he perhaps be able to done gold himself. Be furthermore like his brother and do some pride, and no longer skulk about the shadows as he used to. So he hopes, to be comparable to knights of legend, to be a ser rather than a falsified image. To do this, he hunts an already skinned cat, much alike a shadow in its own way. His brother was the slayer of kings (by word of the people), and more befitting to their reflection, would he now be the Kinslayer? The more thoughts that plague his mind without the dreaded mists, he feels a new weakness threatening to cripple him. He had not been grounded at the base of the mountain, but one could not say it would not happen at its very peak. Nevertheless, there is no reconsideration, for out of the darkness does a paw break the mist. A being of gold gracefully steps from its white shield, and in its eyes is a sense of recognition, followed by an unspeakable rage. The animals gait is not effected by such a petty emotion, for it is the embodiment of pride, and Cerspheus expects it to begin to mock him. He knows well this creature, and what it had been like when it was not a luminescent ghost. Yet it says no words, merely keeps its distance and tenses, looking as if it were more than just a pelt of a skinned animal. It almost looked real. His breath stains the air, visibly marking his own tension and distress, as he poises himself and waits for the lion to pounce. "I come to you, beast who bears the name of my father. I challenge you, and I will wear your helm. Mark myself with your own crown. The pride is yours no longer, and has fallen to a new name." The False King ushers the challenge, and he swears the animal laughs at him. Although it says no words, and shows no evidence of laughing. It merely bears its dead claws, moving gracefully through the stone and fog, before it springs forth. Its mouth is agape, and the man feels akin to a child, as he fears that this fang will pierce through his own armour and tear him asunder in a new way. Yet, he lifts his shield, thrusting it against the animal with all his weight to send it sprawling back down on the ground. The shield is moved aside, and he poises the blade for the next strike. Man and beast, one and the same, in a skirmish that he knows - may not even exist outside of his own head. Where are the Gods in this moment? Is he within the heavens as they laugh at him, like this very beast does before him? The fall of his father not only meant inheritance, but the right to his pride and dignity. Stripped away so long ago, that it was Cerspheus whom may as well had been the pelt on this very peak. In a sickening way, he reflects on this, as he watches the graceful step of the golden on before him. That his brother was sent in his place to fight him, to regain his honour. That they were not familiars, and that suddenly they were strangers to one another. A part of him dies, another half angry, and in this anger does he manage to fight back his fear. The fury in the lion's eyes are matched, they are the same. This serves as only confirmation to his seeming delusional thought process.

There is a crash in the distance, and only for a moment is there a small disturbance within the darkness. All can be seen, but only for a moment, as if it were but a wave that sought to expose the depths of the ocean to the surface, before ruthlessly tearing it back with the tide again. In the midst of this mass is a shambling beast, with flame that bellow from its maw and the scar it bore around the stomach and throat, the rest safely guarded by its crimson hide. Those scales, it seemed, were reflective, and so it captured the lights in the distance of where this lone figure stood. Some must have been eyes, and some must have been lures, as to give lost wanderers the false hope of seeing a star as to reclaim their place within the heavens. However, the blundering creature was not alone, for above this shadow core was there Giselle, one of many God(desse)s of Pain. The beings woven of shade itself would not feast upon him this night, or if his intentions had gone right, they would in no other lifetime either. He searches only for one in this mass, as these glimmering lights glare upon his shambles as he uses wing as legs, as those of his own struggle upon the unseen and unfamiliar environment around him. Perhaps it was sensible that he, the great Legatus, son of Sun itself, could fly to that of which he sought. However, this was not an idea he had entertained, and his partner warned him of what exactly he could crash into within this realm. It would be no other ruined world, nor would it be something close to he. Instead, he would face something much larger, and much more terrible than anything his fiery passion could muster. Things that not even legends could grasp, and the beasts in Darkness could steal away ones very own soul and essence. She reminds him that it is the dragon that devours the flesh, and it was the incorporeal that was left to feast upon any creature's spirit before it may pass on to its other life. This was, in some way, some purgatory, and the home of the restless and tormented. The penalty of such a realm was why Legatus was here, despite his companion's consistent warning of such a residence. It was the creator of his father that wander here, the Deceiver himself and the cause of the Genesis of the one newer (now, somewhat older) Universe. Without such an event Sorath (his acclaimed "father") would have never existed, and the dragon himself would have never been molded from the events that come after. Had it not been for this Deceiver, also, the dragon would not be caught in such fever to destroy his father's Father. Such a reason had driven him to fight with Mallacht, the Centipede, to crack the insects egg so that he may devour what is inside. Yet, to devour the many legged creature and to obtain the power of a God, he must first himself seek out that of which he is to destroy. He is young, and misguided, and it is only one of deception that can lure a grand entity from its layer. Legatus is foolish, and he knows not what he will do, but his stumbling had not been in vain as he sees a streak of red the distance. The dragon thinks for a moment, it could be like him - but no, it was much too bright, and it was too much like blood. It could have been drawn from the many Nameless creatures that lurk within the dark. They did seem attracted to it, as much as they were to him and his reflective surface. It did not help that the web of his wings sheen, reflective of this inner flesh of fire. Much so, he would add to the prominent display and gather more attention. Despite how dangerous, with a running start does he spread his wings and glide over to this red colour to reveal something else in its compensation. It is no longer singular, but beholding to it is something of a much lighter darkness. Instead of billowing flames and smoke like he, did this stranger's maw instead emanate gold. It wore this red cloth around its neck, as it draped around its shoulders and flowed into the darkness, while careful gold markings were etched onto its very body, and the vaguely distinguishable cloak in which it was garbed. Those eyes themselves, to combat its shadow essence (and were it not for this, it would be like darkness, and the other Nameless things that festered in these depths), were its two circular eyes like suns. Legatus finds himself landing quite ungracefully once more, as part of his nature seeks to gawk at this wanderer in this land. Somewhere in his flame-forged bones does he know that this is the Deceiver. His father's Father, and the one he must both destroy and seek help from in accordance. The reptiles spines raise themselves in guard, and perhaps something of fascination to utter what expression he himself may be capable of. No greeting - despite his awe - is given, instead he gives this Deceiver a distinguished hiss that echoes into this abyss. The Deceiver doesn't move, nor does he (was this term even correct?) appear to feel threatened, instead he appears to be amused. This only invokes fury into the prideful dragon, as soon those spikes press closely to his spine, as the reptile rears himself in preparation to muster his flame-like breath. It would do this wanderer right, for what he had done to his father (not that he has any recollection of this, or why either of them are so angry), and attempt to humiliate him in such a way. Although, he does not make it far in his actions, nor display, as the smaller entity raises his hands and offers an (almost apologetic) laugh. Gold essence bleeds out of his mouth as he soon speaks, and Legatus once more finds himself distracting at this, and how soothing this obscure voice was. "I had not witnessed it - my son having his very own son, for I have been lost here in this darkness. I see, now, and I need not to guess - that with this pride you are of my kin. I do, however, find it a shame you come blundering into this abyss to seek me. Whatever for? There is nothing here for you, and I even seek a way out." Legatus simply circles around this smaller entity, who walks upon two legs instead of his pseudo-four (wings are not legs, after all). The dragon cares not for this remedial chatter, nor to be seduced by this silver tongue he has been warned about. He knows not the definition of family, nor what it entails. The reptile simply bears his fangs and demands for what he has come for. "I want to know how you lure a beast from its lair - tell me. I care not about you, but it is what you know" There is another laugh, and this time there is no sincerity, but only a humiliating sense of amusement. "You do not get answers by demanding anything, nor will you beckon a beast from its lair when you yourself are the beast." The words are nothing short of mocking, it takes great effort for a roar to be stifled, and an onslaught of flames to not stain this pitiful darkness. The fury only heightens as the black and gold entity that wear and his red flowing cloth turns his back to the blundering reptile. His interest is set onto something else, and the dragon once catches his gaze drifting upward to the unreachable stars, and where the expanse of Giselle, and her grotesque expanse of a true form lie in wait. She is to pull him from this place of torment when he is to get his answers, but not even in her many eyes and needle-like teeth does she offer him advice. Perhaps she fed not just on the physical pain, but his mental anguish as well. The lack of assistance forces him to trail after his father's Father, nearly crashing into him to halt his moving further. "Who are you to call me a beast? For you said with pride you can tell I'm your kin. I am of crimson scales, and you yourself wear some crimson thing upon your neck. We are connected." The dragon awkwardly reaches, and he catches the Deceiver's attention again, and those gold orbs are watching, assessing, his movements, and everything. Legatus feels the golden gaze skim over his fractured hide, particularly the gap where Mallacht's poisonous spines had been embedded. Within this moment is he somewhat humbled, and he knows he's vulnerable. His lips twitch, as do the spines on his back as his tail uneasily shifts, but he says no more. He leaves his father's Father to spark any further conversation, and his eyes lose their menace, and instead he looks parallel to some desperate mutt. "I am the one who has lived, and who has walked among and as beasts. My own father is now a beast, and we are of a prideful race that would only embody beauty even in the most primitive form. I have created beasts, and I have witnessed wars. I have seen the most civil of creatures turn into something much more pitiful, desperate, and savage. In you, I see a scared and lost child, and a spitting image of Sorath himself. Yes, we are connected, and what I bear around my throat, my shoulders, is in some way apart of you. It is made of the same string that had woven your Father, no doubt it has contributed to your own crimson hue, boy." He stumbles not on his words, and each are direct, as the smaller entity approaches the grounded dragon in a slow, but elegant fashion. Trailing gold from those ornate symbols, while that red cloth still wave within the dark atmosphere. Legatus does not expect this, and albeit his constant dogging of this other entity, is unwelcome to the sudden change of ground. He interprets these words, but a part of his does not understand, and he finds himself thrusting his open maw at the Deceiver as he steps forward. His jaws snap, and he feels the flame boil within his core. He was to retrieve his answers here, and it was he who was supposed to be in control, not this insignificant and smaller creature before him. The dragon aims to damage, but is immediately rebuked, as a sudden pain flares in the side of his face. Claws have burned their mark past his scales, and into the flesh that lie beneath. A roar tears itself from the reptile's throat as he stumbles back, wide-eyed as his tail thrash in earnest attempt to convey what it was he felt. What was he, really, but a flailing worm in comparison to this stronger will? The very thing he wants to defeat brings him down with a sole strike of its hand (was it really a hand - or what he interpreted as a hand?). "I will not trifle with you long, kin or no kin. I will humble you in saying that you would have been such an easy kill. Your armour is not armour at all, and you are too weak to be chasing beasts. If you wish to face one in combat, you must first arm yourself properly. This means not only in the physical sense - but you must strengthen your Will. You must have wit and intelligence to accommodate this pride of yours, or else you will fall victim to this ego. It will undo you." Legatus stops his thrashing, his left eye narrowed in response to the pain, which he knows Giselle can feel. Above this shadowed ruin, he knows that she is reveling in it, and she is as much his enemy as she is an ally. He forces himself to focus, however, he will not miss another word. The reptile tries to understand. "To lure a great beast from his layer, you must first offer him something he cannot obtain on his own. You must find his weakness in both ways. What will first draw his Will out, and grasp his attention, and then when you have drawn him out, what blow will cripple him. You must think, before being so impulsive. Learn to speak and not only act. For then you will have more than the scars along your stomach, and face. You may even die, and no swipe of your tail, bite, nor bitter flame can save you. Instead, you must look into your roots. Well renowned for our silver-tongues, adapt to this and use it. Perhaps it may only aide in developing some armour, so that you may turn your enemies to lead." The smaller entity stares into Legatus' bewildered gaze only for a moment longer, before he turns to resume that elegant gait into the Nothing before him. "Go now, I know your friend above the shadows waits for you. My sentence is incomplete, and I have more time to wander than to spend guiding a grandson how to hunt his own beasts. You're on your own, and what you do with this knowledge is your choice." A hand is lifted, and on this claw-like hand there still lies gold. A signal, that Legatus still doesn't quite comprehend, to indicate their departure. Rather, a cold goodbye, as the Deceiver prides himself on something better than the ungraceful beast of a grandson that had stemmed from Sorath himself. There is that fed fury as the initial shock settles, and the dragon feels himself being torn from the darkness and brought back to the Heavens once more. The additional scars a very mark of why it was he needed to destroy his father's Father, aside from unknown but inherited emotion from the fiery sun itself.