Sparks Will Fly [Wish]
Jun 28, 2012 18:18:54 GMT -5
Post by Eastern Orange on Jun 28, 2012 18:18:54 GMT -5
[/COLOR][/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]
Prometheus moved up and down the dusty corridors, patrolling for any of his acolytes that had decided to disobey him and leave their rooms. The halls were empty, and the house was silent. His followers had apparently decided that they didn’t want to face his wrath tonight and remained in their rooms, which was a good choice on their part because Prometheus was just a little too eager to dole out some punishment tonight. He was in a bad mood, and rightly so. It’s the second time in a row one of their ceremonies had to be canceled because of a thunderstorm. First the new moon celebration, and now almost a month later, the full moon celebration. What were the chances of that? If this had happened a few years ago, Prometheus would have shrugged it off. But at this juncture in his life, it appeared to him to be a sign from the universe that he should just give up.
Prometheus had been struggling as of late. The love for the moon, the faith he had in her… it had always been unconditional, unforced. It was always something that he had felt strongly about; something that was unshakable. It’s that love that spurred him to acquire followers, and spread the word of the moon. He wanted to share his love and beliefs with as many people as possible. But now, he felt like it was all an act, a sham. His unshakable love was shaken, and he felt it was more of a habit than anything. It made him panic to think about his slipping resolve. He felt weak and he feared his acolytes would pick up on it. To compensate for his lack of conviction and the charisma that he always exhibited when he spoke of the moon, he became aggressive. Overly aggressive. He snapped at anyone who came up to him, and punished anyone who didn’t follow even the smallest rule. He didn’t call any meetings, or talk to anybody more than he had to. He locked himself in his rooms up in the west wing for days at a time. He hadn’t slept in a while, and hadn’t eaten in even longer. He was standing on his last leg, and he didn’t seem to care.
He decided to go skulk somewhere else; remembering it wasn’t his acolytes that he was mad at. He moved through the unlit hallways with relative confidence, being a disciple of the moon and all, he was used to navigating in the dark. But tonight, he didn’t have the moon’s light to guide him, only the sudden, strobe-like effect of lightning flashing through the windows. On the other side of the dirty window panes that ran the length of the hall, the world was being thrashed by a relatively violent storm. The trees were buffeted by the rough winds, leaves and other debris clogged the air, thunder rumbled almost constantly, and lightning seemed to be striking a stone's throw away.
Prometheus found himself on the first floor, aimlessly wondering the cluttered halls. He should be asleep. Or maybe he should try to eat something. Either of those things would have been good, but he chose to do neither. He was an insomniac, as well as someone who didn’t like to eat, especially when he felt as hapless as he did. A noise reached him from down the hall, but he ignored it, figuring that it was an animal that was taking shelter from the storm. A few seconds later, another crashed echoed from down the hall, followed by a distinct very human voice uttering a curse. Prometheus stopped in his tracks, a growl rumbling in his throat. One of his followers was out of their bed, disobeying a direct order from their leader! He marched down the hall, searching for the culprit. “Why are you out of your room?” He asked harshly, searching the dark for a body. A bolt of lightning lit up the face of an unfamiliar girl, before it faded and the world was dark again. “You aren’t one of my acolytes!” He growled, accusatory. “What business do you have here?” It occurred to him that she was probably just seeking shelter from the storm, but he didn’t take back his question.