Welcome to Gaia! ::

It was a nice day. The sun was warm, the sky was blue, the wind was cool. Scratch nice – the day was perfect, and at the park, of which today was full of the clamor and hubbub of children, everything was made ten times better. People were milling about, all of which were ‘perfect’ for one reason, and that reason was for the conquering. There seemed to be no ruler in these parts, no one of which the young Scent had to rise up and do battle with; perhaps it was the only downside to an otherwise promising day.

The wildness of the other kids had to be contained, and who better than to take the reigns of this park than him? Ah yes. It was time for Amahté rise his mighty voice and make firm his hand and foot upon the backs of these commoners! It was time monuments were erected in his honor!

He climbed into the sandbox.


(( Sorry for its shortness. 8D ))

Ah, yes. The children in this area looked promising (as did the sand, but he wasn’t about to admit to wanting to play with it). Amahté’s eyes swept over his soon-to-be followers, gaze pausing briefly on each as if to gauge their worth. And then his eyes landed on a head of very familiar orange hair; his eyes dropped to the owner’s face and his dark brows shot up almost comically.

Belatedly, the scent of orange met his nose, and any hesitation as to her identity was thrown to the wind – not many kids around here smelt that nice. But the real question was…what was her name?

Amahté hid his awkward surprise, “Hello.” He crossed his arms and looked over at a boy who was busily working a shapeless mound.

“There’s no opponents out here of which I can face,” he divulged quietly. He searched her face as his attention returned to her, “Why?”

As Vanyel didn’t understand him, Amahté did understand her, and this shown clearly across his face – for a brief moment, that is. He paused to consider her words, or look that part of considering her words, brow furrowing in faux concentration. He wiggled his bare toes through the sandbox, sifting it around back and forth, wondering just exactly sand was made of, and how to make monuments of himself possible with this stuff…

Oh. Right.

“Why challenge them to build castles, when I can order someone to do it for me?” He looked at her half incredulously, hand sweeping outwards to the rest of the vast sandbox. (Which, honestly, wasn’t THAT vast at all) “Like that boy over there…or that one!”

Each time he purposely avoided pointing out the sparse population of girls, choosing instead to sweep over them.

“In due time he shall,” Amahté interrupted briefly. Though he looked on with eyes half-mast, her response made him double take mentally. Upon closer inspection she was right! What the other child made was nothing but a worthless mound! His brow wrinkled; what use was a talent-less artisan?

“Well…it was just an example,” he brushed off, waving a hand. “I can, and will, conquer those with more…ah, craft.” He nodded. Yes, this was a better plan – sift out the good and do away with the bad.

Amahté suddenly pointed at her face and smirked, “You’re only making it worse, you know.”

Good going, Captain Obvious.

“Your face,” he responded casually. “You’re making your face worse.”

His wording was impeccable!

Amahté observed quietly as she stood up, watching as only one gathering information could – everything was taken into account, but somehow he continually came back to her sweater, which stumped him to the point of no return. As he opened his mouth to question the reason for it, she cut him off – which he didn’t take too kindly to, but put up with it (only scowling mildly at her).

She was right – yet again, to his chagrin – the boy across the way was a much better sculptor than the first one he pointed out. If he could make castles rise from the sand, why not a bust depicting his face! The Scent nodded to himself, and turned back to Vanyel.

His eyebrow immediately quirked.

“Yes, well, ah…” – he searched for a name he did not know, crinkled his nose in thought, before waving it off as unimportant – “I don’t think it would be your place. Girls aren’t meant to be…”

Amahté searched for the word, failed to find it, and simply reiterated, “It just wouldn’t be your place.”

“Of course you may watch!” Amahté said loudly, chest puffing out. He was as eager to play conqueror, as he should be. He was, after all, born to bless these people with his presence! He felt no apprehension as he swept his quilt back and climbed onto the wooden marker that held the walls of the sandbox and kept them from falling. Fisted hands poised on his hips, he presently expected the chattering he heard to cease.

But it didn’t. His eyes narrowed.

“From now on out, each and every one of you sculptors, worthy or not, are to be under my command! Except her,” he announced aloud, pointing straight at Vanyel as he finished. A pregnant silence broke over the sandbox, and the little Egyptian scent smiled crookedly.

Until… “You’re stupid!” Amahté’s cheek visibly twitched.

“Excuse me?” He hopped off his mount, brows rising wickedly. The boy who had had the gall to speak out against him was much taller than he, and much bigger in girth, that much was obvious. He had the sort of stupid look on his face that kept him from cowering beneath the little Scent – or so he presumed.

“I said you’re stupid if you think that’s gonna happen, skirtboy,” he snubbed. Amahté’s gaze narrowed, round, childish face twisted into a look of disgust befitting an adult.

“I don’t think it’s going to happen,” he enunciated crisply. “I know it will. In fact – " he snatched the bright yellow plastic shovel from the boy’s hands and whapped him across the knees with it. “It WILL right now.”

There was a small feminine cry, and a crunching in the grass told them someone was coming – the little Scent turned and anticipated the arrival of some adult woman he didn't know, of whom look curiously like…

“Mama!”

“What I did?” Amahté asked incredulously. “I did nothing! Simply put my new follower in place.” He offered Vanyel a confidently smug look, eyes half-masted casually as she sidled behind him. Yes, in case of attack, his subjects were meant to hide in his shadow whilst he valiantly fought for what rightfully belonged to him. He propped his fists on his hips and awaited this…woman’s arrival!

No doubt to praise him on conquering the resilient.

“What HAVE you done?” she howled at him. The kid blubbered and threw his meaty arms around the plump woman. The little Scent blinked owlishly.

“I put my subject back in place,” he answered casually, hands spreading apart. The woman looked absolutely appalled. Of course HE didn’t know why – she had no right to question his motives as it were! His brows dipped low.

“Your—excuse me? Where’s your mother, young man?” she demanded suddenly. Any other child would be terrified at the thought of having their mother dragged into such a situation, but Amahté looked curiously detached, staring at her over his nose coolly.

“My mother is among the pantheon of the gods.”

‘Mama’ looked stumped…what was this child talking about – oh! Oh no! With the gods? Was he an orphan? Her anger fled, replaced by pity…well, no wonder he was acting out in such a manner!

“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey,” she consoled, reaching over to pat his head; he pulled away and scowled deeply. She wrapped an arm around her son and squeezed him, still sobbing tearlessly into the air, and rubbed his shoulder. What WOULD he do if she wasn’t around?

“Well…I hope your caretaker comes soon. What a pretty little boy – I’m sure someone will come and adopt you, no doubt! What pretty eyes. Now…come along, dear…” And just like that she ushered gorilla-boy from the sandbox, murmuring something akin to ‘one must never poke fun of orphans, it’s simply not done!’

Amahté stared after her, face twisted in confusion. He turned to Vanyel, mouth slightly agape, “Why would she pity me? My mother is a goddess!”

Conquering a tribe of buffoons was going to be harder than expected if this is how they would act!

Amahté didn't adore his...'parent'. Confounding yes, as the word 'mother' was the name of God on the lips of all children, but the boy had never taken to his caretaker, and really never planned to. He had subconciously noted her weakness and thrust himself as far back away from it as possible; he did not want any part in her constantly apologetic life - after all, he was never one to say sorry.

"The woman you saw was not my mother," he harrumphed, snapping his head to the side, in a denial of Mary. He waved his hand dismissively, "She's my...ah...coregent of sorts, I suppose."

His face pinched at the thought of shape-shifting. Well...his mother could do it too! Amahté wasn't about to be bested in that department. It was a real shame, however, that Vanyel couldn't meet his real mother. Ah, her loss.

"Is she really?" He didn't sound impressed, or let on that he was incredibly. "Can she turn into just about anything?"

His gaze swept the sandbox, voice holding the barest hints of a challenge.