08-01-2017, 02:53 AM
08-01-2017, 02:53 AM
08-02-2017, 10:19 AM
He wouldn't call it doubts. He wasn't a creature made from doubts, guilt and shame—he was the bastard child of corruption, power and greed, death and lost futures. He was an amalgam of chaos, of, in some ways, pure sin—the fall of something beautiful, all the way up from the once-pristine heavens to the mud-stained floor.
He represented everything that was wrong with this world. He wasn't heartless, but it was stitched together from four different creatures, deities in their own rights, but nothing quite so fancy as gods. In truth, they had been little more than beings, just like any other, but they had possessed an unprecedented strength of character. They had navigated the pure power flows of the Rift, and had embraced it without coming apart into a thousand tiny pieces.
But they hadn't been strong enough. Their minds had turned to darkness, their morals to ashes.
And in the end, they had died, but the devastating powers of the Rift would not be denied. Their bodies, cut into a myriad of pieces, had crawled under Caevoc's cloak, like seeking like. And thus, Kaos had been born.
He had some of their memories, and some of their knowledge. He had all of them inside the shifting shell of his body. He had all their wants and needs and all their fury.
He had his own furies, too. How could he not? In their memories, he had lived their last moments—he had seen what they had seen, had felt them die, and had known that barely anyone had spoken out against the mindless slaughter.
His one priority had been to bring life back to the Rift. He had used cunning and stealth, had made himself a foothold, and had his plans laid out—but he had been too slow. He had kept on feeling the Rift fade. He'd had no other choice.
But that's where the "doubts" came in. He watched them. The powers of Caevoc cloaked him, and allowed him to walk among them. And it was what he saw that made him doubt, that perhaps he had gone about this in the wrong way. They had needed the whip to go through the Portal, and he had few qualms about taking their lives, but now that they were here, he did not need their anger. He didn't need them to fear him.
He needed them to like it here.
He needed them to want to stay.
It was uncomfortable to watch, not because of the rain, but because of the scent of his emotions as he talked, then screamed, at the tree. It was rich and potent and full of desperation and life, and Kisamoa couldn't do anything about it. He could, theoretically, just snuff his life out, and leave nothing but a black stain on Uwaritace's trunk, but it was the direct opposite of his new realizations. Killing Zèklè would endear him to absolutely no one.
The irony of it was that Kisamoa knew Isopia had spoken out against mindlessly murdering one of his ancestors, but he hadn't had any choice in the matter. She had thrown her lot in with the Gods, and they hadn't been strong enough to stop him.
If only they hadn't tried...
Zèklè finally fell to the ground, and laid there. Kisamoa pulled the shroud from himself, and stepped under Her great boughs to the wail of the Mourning Flowers. Rain matted his oily fur, and made the strange lights glisten and bloom over him. He left black prints where he had stepped, not one like the other.
"Zèklè," he said through the rain, a few of his teeth growing too long and making the name come out a little mangled. In spite of it, his voice was as gentle as it could be, when it came from a creature such as he. He paused, as if unsure of what to say. He'd been related to Ampere, hadn't he? "For what it is worth, which I doubt is much, I am sorry," the tall, shadowy thing said, trying his hand at sincerity again.
He wasn't sure how he felt about it, but he had to try.
He represented everything that was wrong with this world. He wasn't heartless, but it was stitched together from four different creatures, deities in their own rights, but nothing quite so fancy as gods. In truth, they had been little more than beings, just like any other, but they had possessed an unprecedented strength of character. They had navigated the pure power flows of the Rift, and had embraced it without coming apart into a thousand tiny pieces.
But they hadn't been strong enough. Their minds had turned to darkness, their morals to ashes.
And in the end, they had died, but the devastating powers of the Rift would not be denied. Their bodies, cut into a myriad of pieces, had crawled under Caevoc's cloak, like seeking like. And thus, Kaos had been born.
He had some of their memories, and some of their knowledge. He had all of them inside the shifting shell of his body. He had all their wants and needs and all their fury.
He had his own furies, too. How could he not? In their memories, he had lived their last moments—he had seen what they had seen, had felt them die, and had known that barely anyone had spoken out against the mindless slaughter.
His one priority had been to bring life back to the Rift. He had used cunning and stealth, had made himself a foothold, and had his plans laid out—but he had been too slow. He had kept on feeling the Rift fade. He'd had no other choice.
But that's where the "doubts" came in. He watched them. The powers of Caevoc cloaked him, and allowed him to walk among them. And it was what he saw that made him doubt, that perhaps he had gone about this in the wrong way. They had needed the whip to go through the Portal, and he had few qualms about taking their lives, but now that they were here, he did not need their anger. He didn't need them to fear him.
He needed them to like it here.
He needed them to want to stay.
It was uncomfortable to watch, not because of the rain, but because of the scent of his emotions as he talked, then screamed, at the tree. It was rich and potent and full of desperation and life, and Kisamoa couldn't do anything about it. He could, theoretically, just snuff his life out, and leave nothing but a black stain on Uwaritace's trunk, but it was the direct opposite of his new realizations. Killing Zèklè would endear him to absolutely no one.
The irony of it was that Kisamoa knew Isopia had spoken out against mindlessly murdering one of his ancestors, but he hadn't had any choice in the matter. She had thrown her lot in with the Gods, and they hadn't been strong enough to stop him.
If only they hadn't tried...
Zèklè finally fell to the ground, and laid there. Kisamoa pulled the shroud from himself, and stepped under Her great boughs to the wail of the Mourning Flowers. Rain matted his oily fur, and made the strange lights glisten and bloom over him. He left black prints where he had stepped, not one like the other.
"Zèklè," he said through the rain, a few of his teeth growing too long and making the name come out a little mangled. In spite of it, his voice was as gentle as it could be, when it came from a creature such as he. He paused, as if unsure of what to say. He'd been related to Ampere, hadn't he? "For what it is worth, which I doubt is much, I am sorry," the tall, shadowy thing said, trying his hand at sincerity again.
He wasn't sure how he felt about it, but he had to try.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
08-03-2017, 03:57 AM
08-03-2017, 09:39 AM
The rain fell on him.
His heart was unruly, a mixture of the anger of the slain, and the curiosity of the child; whatever was happening in front of him was ..enthralling. It was a facet of emotion he either did not possess, or simply ignored; it was foreign and it was mortal and somehow, so, so beautiful. (Not to mention useless, and that was probably why Kaos had elected not to feel it.)
It was grief. It plucked at his brows, twisting them into a concerned mask, but upon his broad, long-jawed face, it probably looked anything but empathetic, and with eyes of black-and-teal—the color of so much recent death—how could he seem anything but that killer?
And yet, he felt for the stallion caught in the crossfire of pride and desperation. He had suffered, where he would not have needed to, had some things in history not gone as they had.
Regret didn't move you forward, so Kaos was reserved with his regrets, too.
He listened. He listened, because that was why he had come—not to poke and probe the wound, to bleed it, or to rub it in (but honestly, how can he not, when he is what he is?). He had come to listen, to learn, to follow his own advice. So his spectral tail, for the moment long and tangled, swished around his crooked hocks once as he stood in the rain.
"No," he finally said when there was something to answer, something tangible for a creature awkward at genuineness. Silence, on his part, lingered for a moment, joined by dark smoke seeping from the corner of his mouth. "No," he said again, as if he'd been deep in thought. He hadn't. Not really.
He fought the urge to move, to pad closer, to somehow wind himself around the downed stallion and—what? Smother him? Breathe false life into him, false strength? Seal away that part of his memories? Mind control him, turn him into a puppet?
No more shortcuts. No more games. Wasn't that what he had said? He chewed on his lips for a moment.
"I don't want to be seen as ..trying to buy you," he finally began, "but is there anything I can do for you?" He paused. He didn't want to bait Zèklè, if the idea was not to occur to him, but for good measure, he thought it to himself: I will not be surprised if you ask me to leave you alone, for the rest of your life.
Could he? Would he? Was he honorable enough? His eyes glowed dimly in the rain, and he waited.
[ ]
His heart was unruly, a mixture of the anger of the slain, and the curiosity of the child; whatever was happening in front of him was ..enthralling. It was a facet of emotion he either did not possess, or simply ignored; it was foreign and it was mortal and somehow, so, so beautiful. (Not to mention useless, and that was probably why Kaos had elected not to feel it.)
It was grief. It plucked at his brows, twisting them into a concerned mask, but upon his broad, long-jawed face, it probably looked anything but empathetic, and with eyes of black-and-teal—the color of so much recent death—how could he seem anything but that killer?
And yet, he felt for the stallion caught in the crossfire of pride and desperation. He had suffered, where he would not have needed to, had some things in history not gone as they had.
Regret didn't move you forward, so Kaos was reserved with his regrets, too.
He listened. He listened, because that was why he had come—not to poke and probe the wound, to bleed it, or to rub it in (but honestly, how can he not, when he is what he is?). He had come to listen, to learn, to follow his own advice. So his spectral tail, for the moment long and tangled, swished around his crooked hocks once as he stood in the rain.
"No," he finally said when there was something to answer, something tangible for a creature awkward at genuineness. Silence, on his part, lingered for a moment, joined by dark smoke seeping from the corner of his mouth. "No," he said again, as if he'd been deep in thought. He hadn't. Not really.
He fought the urge to move, to pad closer, to somehow wind himself around the downed stallion and—what? Smother him? Breathe false life into him, false strength? Seal away that part of his memories? Mind control him, turn him into a puppet?
No more shortcuts. No more games. Wasn't that what he had said? He chewed on his lips for a moment.
"I don't want to be seen as ..trying to buy you," he finally began, "but is there anything I can do for you?" He paused. He didn't want to bait Zèklè, if the idea was not to occur to him, but for good measure, he thought it to himself: I will not be surprised if you ask me to leave you alone, for the rest of your life.
Could he? Would he? Was he honorable enough? His eyes glowed dimly in the rain, and he waited.
[
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
08-03-2017, 11:20 PM
08-04-2017, 11:11 AM
He actually began to doubt.
But only for a moment.
He thought that, maybe, he shouldn't have come here. Maybe, he shouldn't have pulled the cloak from his shoulders, and tried to console someone he was woefully ill-equipped to console. Maybe, he should've laughed instead, and just hammered their idea of him—his idea of himself—deeper. Kisamoa, and his reign of terror in the Rift. Kisamoa, the one who enslaved Helovians into the service of another realm. Kisamoa, the one who killed their loved ones and didn't even give a damn.
He'd laughed and sung as he killed their Gods, hadn't he?
He'd come here because he'd wanted to learn. He'd come here because he'd wanted to fix it, this thing he broke, and this thing he hated seeing broken.
He hadn't come to have the consequences of his actions thrown in his face, and have it actually hurt.
Which is to say—either he had not understood what he had done, or he had chosen not to. Whichever it was was both pointless to know, and to speculate on, because the fact remained: this had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, barely even a plan, just a stirring of something inside, and it had just happened to align with what his analytical mind told him.
Oh, and a lack of impulse control.
He was a fifth mind shoved in between four spirits, a child in a body he did not own, a single consciousness with clarity contending with four dead, clouded ones. His entire world was built around what he had known upon being created. He didn't go so far as to regret, though. He didn't go so far as to doubt. That, would've been to go too far, too soon.
So what did he do, to the broken thing he was, clumsily, trying to stitch back together, pieces of a ripped paper in paws and claws that weren't meant to fix anything, only destroy? He couldn't even find the tape, so what did he have? Nothing. Nothing. Zèklè burst out into laughter that even Kisamoa knew was wrong.
He was Kisamoa—he was Kaos. He was the abomination child of four dead deities. He could consume worlds, rip the fabrics of space and time, and kill with barely more than a thought.
And he had never felt more helpless.
In his customary silence he met Zèklè's eyes. He blinked, on occasion, his eyelids maybe the only things on his body that looked soft—long lashes, downy fur. Teal veins threaded his irises, and on his monstrous face, emotion was hard to read. What did his lowered head, drooping ears, sagging shoulders mean? What was his tail, hanging limp along a hind leg, saying?
How do you know with a monster? He swallowed, the motion lost in the constant shifting of his body, as if the Gods he was made of couldn't quite decide who got what part, and kept pulling other things into the mix. He was afraid of what he might find if he looked at himself—all those he had killed, had he somehow absorbed them, and was that why his body couldn't quite keep still?
The request was made. It was the two things he had hoped the least for, but suspected the most; he did not look away, for he felt he owed the horse that much. "Ah," said the one who had died four times. Slowly, he shifted his weight from side to side, swaying a little. How do you, gently, say, I could, but you might not like it, or, Isopia is a thing I cannot touch, her essence something not under my jurisdiction, or, I can't mend things you motherfucker, or, fuck them, they made their choices, or—it's a tide of rage, but it's not his, precisely. It's the rage of those killed.
They keep saying the score isn't settled, that it's not in balance yet, but shouldn't your world being saved be enough?
(It's not enough it can never be enough they were not enough because their Gods protected them it's not a permanent fix you failed—)
He was still only Kisamoa, the Destroyer. The Deceiver. "You made your request," he finally said, his voice heavier, somehow. He didn't want to deny him. He didn't want to tell him to ask for something else, anything else—he didn't want to extend his hand only to snatch it away because it burned when it touched him. Thunder rolled, and Kisamoa's skin with it. So many things were on his tongue, on his mind—would you all have come, if I had asked? Would your Gods have let you go, if I had asked? Would you have helped save my world, if I had asked?
The world they had destroyed with barely any second thoughts, except for Isopia. The Mountain That Knows. Had she known this would come?
His experiences with saving worlds was limited. The Riftians had cried out for help, and the Helovian Gods had answered with deicide and theft. Was it, then, so strange that he followed in their steps?
"I..." the great beast began, then fell silent. I don't want to promise anything sounded too much like I'll forget about it tomorrow. He closed his eyes. "I will do what I can," he finally said, his voice heavy like the mountains themselves, "but death.. It's... I don't—I can't recommend coming back from it."
It was pounding in his head. It was too much. This wasn't what he had wanted. He hadn't wanted to come here and absolutely lose his hold because, he hadn't even known there was something he was holding on to? But he'd found it, in the folds of vengeance and hunger, a space in the body and between the souls—one that was his.
He needed something to bury it in.
"I'm so, so sorry," the creature whispered, his mouth and face having shaped into something soft, something almost recognizable. He sounded broken.
He felt broken. Kisamoa pulled the cloak of shadows over him again, disappeared, and fled.
Left behind in the rain and the song of the flowers, Zèklè's metal wing starts to glow, and the other spits a few sparks. It's unclear whether it's something he did, or something the Rift did.
[ Congratulations Zèklè! ]
VANITY MAGIC: Lightning markings on his back and wing crackle with harmless sparks
VANITY MAGIC: The metal parts on his body glows when wet
But only for a moment.
He thought that, maybe, he shouldn't have come here. Maybe, he shouldn't have pulled the cloak from his shoulders, and tried to console someone he was woefully ill-equipped to console. Maybe, he should've laughed instead, and just hammered their idea of him—his idea of himself—deeper. Kisamoa, and his reign of terror in the Rift. Kisamoa, the one who enslaved Helovians into the service of another realm. Kisamoa, the one who killed their loved ones and didn't even give a damn.
He'd laughed and sung as he killed their Gods, hadn't he?
He'd come here because he'd wanted to learn. He'd come here because he'd wanted to fix it, this thing he broke, and this thing he hated seeing broken.
He hadn't come to have the consequences of his actions thrown in his face, and have it actually hurt.
Which is to say—either he had not understood what he had done, or he had chosen not to. Whichever it was was both pointless to know, and to speculate on, because the fact remained: this had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, barely even a plan, just a stirring of something inside, and it had just happened to align with what his analytical mind told him.
Oh, and a lack of impulse control.
He was a fifth mind shoved in between four spirits, a child in a body he did not own, a single consciousness with clarity contending with four dead, clouded ones. His entire world was built around what he had known upon being created. He didn't go so far as to regret, though. He didn't go so far as to doubt. That, would've been to go too far, too soon.
So what did he do, to the broken thing he was, clumsily, trying to stitch back together, pieces of a ripped paper in paws and claws that weren't meant to fix anything, only destroy? He couldn't even find the tape, so what did he have? Nothing. Nothing. Zèklè burst out into laughter that even Kisamoa knew was wrong.
He was Kisamoa—he was Kaos. He was the abomination child of four dead deities. He could consume worlds, rip the fabrics of space and time, and kill with barely more than a thought.
And he had never felt more helpless.
In his customary silence he met Zèklè's eyes. He blinked, on occasion, his eyelids maybe the only things on his body that looked soft—long lashes, downy fur. Teal veins threaded his irises, and on his monstrous face, emotion was hard to read. What did his lowered head, drooping ears, sagging shoulders mean? What was his tail, hanging limp along a hind leg, saying?
How do you know with a monster? He swallowed, the motion lost in the constant shifting of his body, as if the Gods he was made of couldn't quite decide who got what part, and kept pulling other things into the mix. He was afraid of what he might find if he looked at himself—all those he had killed, had he somehow absorbed them, and was that why his body couldn't quite keep still?
The request was made. It was the two things he had hoped the least for, but suspected the most; he did not look away, for he felt he owed the horse that much. "Ah," said the one who had died four times. Slowly, he shifted his weight from side to side, swaying a little. How do you, gently, say, I could, but you might not like it, or, Isopia is a thing I cannot touch, her essence something not under my jurisdiction, or, I can't mend things you motherfucker, or, fuck them, they made their choices, or—it's a tide of rage, but it's not his, precisely. It's the rage of those killed.
They keep saying the score isn't settled, that it's not in balance yet, but shouldn't your world being saved be enough?
(It's not enough it can never be enough they were not enough because their Gods protected them it's not a permanent fix you failed—)
He was still only Kisamoa, the Destroyer. The Deceiver. "You made your request," he finally said, his voice heavier, somehow. He didn't want to deny him. He didn't want to tell him to ask for something else, anything else—he didn't want to extend his hand only to snatch it away because it burned when it touched him. Thunder rolled, and Kisamoa's skin with it. So many things were on his tongue, on his mind—would you all have come, if I had asked? Would your Gods have let you go, if I had asked? Would you have helped save my world, if I had asked?
The world they had destroyed with barely any second thoughts, except for Isopia. The Mountain That Knows. Had she known this would come?
His experiences with saving worlds was limited. The Riftians had cried out for help, and the Helovian Gods had answered with deicide and theft. Was it, then, so strange that he followed in their steps?
"I..." the great beast began, then fell silent. I don't want to promise anything sounded too much like I'll forget about it tomorrow. He closed his eyes. "I will do what I can," he finally said, his voice heavy like the mountains themselves, "but death.. It's... I don't—I can't recommend coming back from it."
It was pounding in his head. It was too much. This wasn't what he had wanted. He hadn't wanted to come here and absolutely lose his hold because, he hadn't even known there was something he was holding on to? But he'd found it, in the folds of vengeance and hunger, a space in the body and between the souls—one that was his.
He needed something to bury it in.
"I'm so, so sorry," the creature whispered, his mouth and face having shaped into something soft, something almost recognizable. He sounded broken.
He felt broken. Kisamoa pulled the cloak of shadows over him again, disappeared, and fled.
Left behind in the rain and the song of the flowers, Zèklè's metal wing starts to glow, and the other spits a few sparks. It's unclear whether it's something he did, or something the Rift did.
[ Congratulations Zèklè! ]
VANITY MAGIC: Lightning markings on his back and wing crackle with harmless sparks
VANITY MAGIC: The metal parts on his body glows when wet
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
08-06-2017, 04:50 PM
08-08-2017, 04:57 PM
another mind, another soul, another body to grow old. it's not complicated. Zekle wasn't the only one who glowed: the dapples that softly lined Otme's belly and neck pulsed with a warm golden light. It was subtle and rather charming, unlike the brilliant metallic gleam of Zekle's wing and other metal parts, but it certainly was distinctive. Otem hadn't seen Kisamoa arrive or depart, having stopped only when she saw Mauna. The autumn-touched girl felt no real connection to the siblings she had on her Father's side (other than her twin of course), perhaps because they were so plentiful. On Isopia's side however, there was only Mauna, and something about that made him feel so special, like he was a thing to be cherished. Like he was a piece of Isopia that Otem couldn't quite let go. She was just a child herself of course, but Mauna was an even younger child, and as his older sibling, she would do what she could to protect him. That's why she was currently lurking just behind a tree, partially avoiding the rain, watching Mauna and Zekle. Otem wasn't quite sure what to make of Zero now that her mother was dead. She'd heard many things about Iso and Zero's childhood adventures, but with her gone, Otem wasn't sure what sort of ground that left she and this removed potential step-father. They had Mauna in common, but perhaps that didn't matter. Isopia was the thing that linked them together, and ...she was gone. Otem wrapped her wings around her shoulders, as if giving herself a hug. She continued to watch father and son, despite the fact that she couldn't quite hear what they were saying. "He looks just fine ... he's got his dad to look out for him." Otem mumbled to Pandora, as if she really was just checking up on Mauna, and not being a creepy stalker because she was secretly lonely. |
Terrible post is terrible. Otem is just lurking in the bushes watching x.x
08-12-2017, 10:40 PM