| It's What I Do (Narrative) |
[26 Nov 2008|11:39pm] |
"Could you state your name.. again, for the record?"
"Pyriphlegethon."
"Pyrip...what?"
"Pyriphlegethon."
"Could you.. spell your name, for the record?"
"P-y-r-i-p-h-l-e-g-e-t-h-o-n."
"Thank you."
Ethon sat in a dimly lit interrogation room, his wrists handcuffed and laying on the table before him. Flanked by two burly officers who stood poised to jump him at the first sign of trouble, or even the first excuse he gave them to, the River of Fire felt damn near smothered by idiocy. That he was here, seemingly bound and kept in this room by these men was an absurd thought, as he could have left any time he wished. No mortal could hold him here, and if he wanted he could have turned them to ash, and the police station into a giant fire ball with little more than a thought. The agonizing truth though was that he did not want to leave. Since his banishment, he had little in the way of anything to occupy his time, and a twisted way he found himself amusement in his present situation; a God under the arrest of mortal men. Though enjoying himself, he could not claim credit for any design that put him in the situation he found himself. For once, he had actually been minding his own business.
( Hard Time )
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