Asterion || Minotaur (cantfindtheexit) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-03-30 01:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | the minotaur |
Who: The Minotaur (NOT Asterion) [Closed narrative, but I can open if someone wants to reply. Ping me.]
What: Darkness.
When: Sunday night.
Where: Asterion's studio, Manhattan.
This had been coming for days. Of course, he had felt it coming Thursday, when he had been so happy, when Orpheus had come to his studio and once again demonstrated how trusting he could be. If the musician could see him now...or the heroes, or any of them...they would think not of murdering him brutally. If they could see what he was about to do...he would not blame them.
Pacing his studio, bits of wire and glass embedding into his feet, the Minotaur appeared less and less human, less and less real. The physical form did not change, but it was perception that dictated reality, wasn't it? Perception made him into this, this terrible thing, and it was perception at this moment that made him appear anything but human; huge and beastly, eyes great and black as pitch, fingernails long as claws, head horned. Hot air blew from his nose, and it might as well have come from a snout, hands clenched to fists, but they might as well have been hooves.
Asterion had been given his time to play, the Minotaur had been so good, so quiet lately...he deserved to come out too, and the pathetic artist wasn't going to stop him. He never stopped the monster, rarely ever tried, because he was weak and the Minotaur was strong, because the Minotaur would fight back hoof and horn until he was given release, and the more Asterion fought, the worse he would make this on him. They were both aware of their arrangement - it had been entered without any negotiations, all liberties taken by the beast and the man left to deal with it as he would or give into it entirely.
And so of course the artist folded, unlocking the door with a newly minted key and then turning himself over to the darkness, folding up in that place where he could only wait and hope and wonder. From his ashes rose the Minotaur, itching for combat, thirsting for blood, and he paced the apartment only momentarily before slipping out the door, a broad grin on his face. He was going to find blood. He was going to rend flesh. And tomorrow, Asterion would wake up covered in fluids that were not his, an evil, metallic taste on his tongue, muscles sore and aching...but the Minotaur harbored no pity for his host. He harbored no pity at all.