Maeva » Lair » Vol

Vol

(#66157409)

but compassion isn't strength

Familiar

Orbiting Spirit

Energy: 47/50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

23.36 m

Wingspan

15.4 m

Weight

8000.68 kg

Genetics

Cyan
Skink

Splash
Bee

Lead
Veined

Hatchday

Dec 27, 2020
(3 years)

Breed

Adult
Imperial

Eye Type

Light
Uncommon

Level 1 Imperial

EXP: 0 / 245

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Azazael
Veda

Offspring

none

Biography

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T H E M E
V o l
face my devils

It was his fault. This he knew, that it was his fault, but why or what, for that he never got any answer. And deities forbid he opened his fanged mouth to ask, lest he would lose another handful of too many fangs. Not that it mattered, they grew back in a matter of simple days. The Undying Empire was cold, to its own, to strangers, reason for that was the detached manner in which its Emperor allowed events to unfurl, because he knew more, knew of their end before their beginning could completely be set in motion.

And yet, things were his fault. For his mother’s limp, the scars on her lower stomach, even now, even after layer upon layer of healing spells were cast upon her. It would pass, he was told, it would be alright. But nothing was, nothing would be for a long, long time. He was young when he let go of his mother’s hand, his wrist snatched roughly by his father’s cold hand. Claws digging into his skin and when he cried, Azazael lashed out, struck with the back of his hand and the sharp cackle of lightning’s static ripped through the air, the silence after the cry.

Daylight morphed into eternal night and when he opened his eyes once more, he was in a palace that looked exactly like home. Yet it wasn’t, not quite. Instead of white, there was black and purple, broken by flashes of elegantly placed gold, there were roses, velvet petaled, black thorned roses everywhere. And here, his father turned truly devilish. Like a six winged, halo bearing menace, he came over the boy, a storm of dark and rage and pure hatred that blinded him, swallowed the last speck of divine light and made it so much more believable that he was his son.

His deformed, too many fanged son that had clawed through his mother’s womb in a show of demonic ungratefulness. Azazael hated him, hated him to the core and all that drove him forwards was the desire to make the boy pay, because it was all his fault.

Look at you, he would snarl, low and hoarse into the boy’s ear as they stood in front of a mirror, one bony hand with its eerily strong fingers holding Vol’s throat, bruising and choking like a collar too tight. And the serpent that Azazael was spewing its poison in sickly sweet words, his breath cold and smelling of myrrh, washing like a foul wind over a tear stained cheek. You are a vile thing, as disgusting as you are disfigured, I should sew your mouth shut with barbed wire just to teach you a lesson. I should pluck out those eyes, because you deserve not an ounce of her beauty. Not even the smallest bit.

The bruises around his throat hurt, like fire and lightning and disappointment, more than the bolt of electricity cast his way could ever make him hurt. Under his father he was supposed to learn. They were similar too, divinity at its vilest, sacrilegious in its purest form, storms of lightning and pure power, while hate ate away their inner light. Azazael called himself a tutor, yet all he taught were lessons in pain, in bruises and lost teeth, cuts and blood, walking away with ruffled feathers and Vol a curled up ball of tears and blood on the floor.

Always to be picked up by the father that only saw the beauty and potential. The one that was not blinded by past pain and poisonous jealousy. Titaneaus had made it a habit to watch, to observe and let things go their natural way, yet not this time. He had stayed passive for too long, had allowed terror and fear to reign within a young mind, while guilt weighed heavily on skinny shoulders, a burden around a bruised neck ready to drag a young boy down and under.

Forbidden to hide his face, so that everyone could see the ugliness of everything that he was, Vol cried at the Emperor’s shoulder, long and broken, far too young for a treatment this horrendous, undeserving of what was thrown at him. With brittle words and shaking voice, he proclaimed his desire to be a son of Titaneaus in more than mind alone. To be his flesh and blood, because then he would be more, would be different, would not be himself anymore.

Don’t you know that you already are?, was the reply Titaneaus would whisper in the boy’s breaking mind, wrapping him in wings speckled with galaxies and stars, nebulas dancing in old eyes and over the fall and rise of his body. Eternal he was, but not entirely without feeling, the rage displayed by his lover too out of the norm, this went beyond simple, jealousy fueled anger, this was personal. A reflection in the mirror that Azazael could not bear to face. You are my son, my child, my flesh and blood.

The last Vol would see of the Undying Empire were the stars, reflected on his father’s scales, his eyes. As he opened his eyes once more, it was all gone, darkness and roses, black marble and purple carpets, replaced by light and sunshine, by brightness and white, silence broken by his mother’s voice calling out his name after too long a time.

He was home. It was over, finally over.
~ by Schattenfeuer

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build up your walls, fill up the glass, let it bury your cries

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