"Interesting," he replies, musing over his sister's retort. Most would probably realise that the middle of a ghostly apocalypse is not the best time to have a philosophical debate, but the yearling has never been the sort of person to notice such things. In his single-mindedness, he cares about nothing but what he wants to say, and he's fully prepared to respond in full to Otem when suddenly the wolf god speaks.
He turns, mildly intrigued. Many others seem to have unpleasant things happen to them - his father's mouth leaks black, acidic saliva - but he escapes free of anything. This is interesting, and he deduces that it's probably because he did not attach the spirits, merely commented on them. This seems to show that the spectres have some element of empathy, and also a notion of vengeance. As their father approaches them, the volcano-boy meekly nods and follows his sire obligingly. He glances back as he does so, hoping that Otem will follow - given that he doesn't believe any of the ghost's apparitions, he sees no use in remaining. |
YOU'RE THE CLOSEST THING TO HELL I'VE SEEN SO FAR The boy obeys him, but the girl defies him. In a way he's disappointed, as he prefers his sons to show defiance and strength, yet on this occasion he's glad that at least one of his twins takes his advice immediately. Otem denies it, fighting back against his gentle urging. "Anything that can get into my head enough to create a near-perfect version of your mother is more damn dangerous than anything I've ever seen before," he growls in retort, bulking himself up to his great height and attempting to nudge Otem more firmly towards the exit. His jaws open into a grimace, displaying the corrupted black saliva that dribbles down his chin and leaves burns in its wake; he hopes she will see what the spirits have done to him, and that if they can frighten even the Indomitable, then they should sure as hell frighten her. Volterra has never feared physicality, because in a battle of brute strength he'll always have an advantage. What he truly despises, what haunts his nightmares, is the notion of mental fights - it's why he hates magic that can get inside his head, like Rikyn's. It's why he reacts so forcefully to anything that seeks to broach the sanctum of his mind. It's why he can hardly think of anything more terrifying that these malicious spirits, these creatures who can delve inside his most precious memories and create an image of Isopia that's so fucking realistic, it's like they painted it soley for him. If they can do that, what the hell else can they do? So he nudges harder, trying to muscle his daughter towards the exit. He doesn't want her to have to see what he saw, and he certainly doesn't want her to have to feel the unique choking sensation of having his tongue almost ripped from its stem. For her own sake she needs to get the hell out of here, and that's why he does anything in his power to try and haul both of them to safety. If he's successful, he'll leave alongside her at a brisk pace, his mind still reeling with the images of Isopia and the deep, dark hunger that brews inside him - the idea that in the Rift, the Mountain can live again. |
another mind, another soul, another body to grow old. it's not complicated. Getting an interesting from her twin was perhaps the highest compliment the odd boy could bestow onto anyone. Interesting meant that she had said something clever enough that he didn't have anything that immediately contradicted it in his mind. That, or perhaps he'd finally learned that there were certain words and phrases which if said, could shut other people up. "That's what you saw?" Otem gasps as her Father makes himself into an impenetrable wall of flesh and muscle that she is helpless to disobey. But he needn't have, really. The mere mention of her mother is enough to turn the girl's limbs to jelly and her mind to a puddle of mush. "But it was just the ghosts, right?" She added, heart beating faster. Otem didn't know which would be worse: if a ghost had bastardized the image of her mother purely for its own motives, or if Isopia really had been here and Otem had missed her. Allowing herself to be led away between twin and last remaining parent, Otem vowed to keep her eyes peeled for spirits. Maybe she would see her mother again after all. |
"Oh thank you!" Golden eyes danced heavenward, beckoning the yearling down. "Thank you so much, you saved my Da…" Plush maw delved frantically into the motionless ebon contours of the slumped stallion, realising the life therein; the warmth and the slow, shallow breath hidden beneath his strewn feather. She set about realigning the appendage (perhaps for her own comfort more than his), before turning to Iskara with warmth and gratitude pooling through her expression. "I am indebted to you." Perhaps if the younger couldn’t stay - for others already were moving off - she would find him soon after in this fluorescent world of perils and thank him properly in gift.
But she’d try, because she was a willing little force of tenacity and audacity, brimming with such a heated, blunt force, sharpened to such an extent, realigned, sculpted and carved over again, turning her head towards the haunting outcries and the bestial commandments; noting the bedlam, the chaos, the unraveling menace. Ghosts were on the horizon, in the shadows, in the mist, in the cloaks and daggers of friends, of allies, of comrades, and it stoked a fire within her soul, so when she turned to Iskra as he asked if she was all right, she locked everything away under smoke, under embers, under a breathtaking, ferocious smile. “I’m okay,” she nodded, struggling not to quiver, not to shake, when the strangest of sensation inched its way into her skin. Her pelt trembled on its own, an innate reaction to touch, to foreign entities crawling along her form – but this was different, like something burrowed its way into her hide and stayed there. It irritated and annoyed her, a strange droning sound captivating her presence the way bees so often did with their peculiar buzzing, drawn to them as a moth to a flame, but this was otherworldly, creepy, and eerie. She couldn’t understand it, couldn’t fathom it, so she attempted to ignore the bizarre perception, stepping forward, into the bounty of malice and menace again, fighting too many things at once.
Melita endeavored to focus on Iskra then, his agreement to her request, then his awe at the scene before them – she had just a few small moments to gaze at the wolf before it disappeared, before he murmured something about another carnivore, and she couldn’t remember, recall, anything about these monsters. Perhaps she’d been too young, too naïve, too spellbound by everything else to have been allured or beguiled by the stories, but she was well and trapped now by its notations. “What tiger?” The little one whispered back, but by the time she’d turned to stare, to gaze upon the boy in blue and gold, he was gone. A sudden panic swelled in her heart, in her chest, in her lungs, a thousand questions launched in her mind (what if he’d suddenly been taken by the monsters, what if he’d been assaulted, what if he’d been hurt?), spinning her in all directions. She spotted him as he became the savior for another (a being falling down, down, down), capable where she was not, and the brief flutter of apprehension cooled into that ferocity all over again.
What could she do to help someone else? How could she combat these malignant forces?
She didn’t even know how to fly yet.
There was a figure on the ground though, nearby, drenched in black – still, too still. The honeybee child inhaled, and tread softly, carefully, towards the felled beast, because he needed protection, because she could at least stand nearby, another body, another wall, another shield for someone in need. The girl unfolded her wings, fluttered them open like a canopy (an umbrella, a ward), to shelter the stranger from the phantoms, from the chaos, from the vast unknown. She thought about lowering her maw to his ears, to ask, to inquire about his wellbeing, but there was naught else she could do but stare out into the abyss, to watch, to guard, eyes darting, heart pounding, anger beginning to claw its way into her throat.
"I think so," she answered uncertainly, passing an inexperienced eye across the stallion’s damp, murky form. There seemed to be no blood seeping out beneath him to indicate the injury which had taken his flight – had she imagined it, the vision of one wing removed? Should his skin have been ripped or the flesh visibly wounded, her answer might have been a steady yes (for the response would’ve been different and golden blood would already be sowing him back together). As it stood, she could neither see what ailed him nor help in any way better than to guard and caress. He was far too large for either to roll.
"I’m Zahra, nice to meet you,” she hummed quietly, following the path of his eyes as they ventured thither to find another winged figure. The brown-coated girl stood yet above another fallen – another body, sprawled motionlessly across the ground. “I don’t want to hold you up,” she noted easily, a tinge of understanding icing every word. Eleos was still unmoving below her, but there was a sudden desperate yearning in her heart to help; to pay forward the kindness that was given to her. The shadows, rolling, ravaging mists seemed to be a good distance away. "Do… you know of anyone who needs a healer, or a bandage?"
For an instant, her gaze is caught by the demonic red glare of the wolf's eyes, and for that fraction of a second Erthë felt as though time had ceased to flow around her. Internally she balked beneath the dead god's gaze, but strangely enough she felt no anger in that brief glare, no hatred or begrudging of her existence even though she'd had such a part in his demise. Indeed, all she saw and felt was, oddly enough, appreciation, and it was so baffling that she all but forgot the battles that raged around her, and would have failed to notice the onslaught of dark spirits if the fang in her grasp had not reacted in her defense. It flared up in a bright, painful red glow and shattered, vanquishing several wraiths as it did so, and fell to the ground.
All around her the wraiths were disappearing. One by one and in droves they were herded towards the grinning wolf fangs and disappeared in a ear-splitting wail of dismay, and before Erthë could speak a word of thanks or plead the shadow of the god for a way to defeat Kaos, it too vanished. Gone, as if it had never been there at all... with the bloodied bodies and warped magic left as the only proof of its existence.
For a while, Erthë merely stood there, numb and still in the swirling mist while the echoes of shock and grief reverberated through her. There was disappointment too, for not only had the wolf failed to revive, it had caused the fang to explode as well, leaving nothing left for her to pin her hopes on. It felt like a defeat, even though on the whole they must have emerged victorious from this skirmish with the dead, and its taste was bitter in her mouth. Reluctant to part with even the shattered remnants of her hopes, the little mare searched the ground for the fragments of the fang, but was surprised to find not shards of black tooth but three whole fangs, as black as the one had been but without that eerie black glow.
Bemused but grateful, the hybrid mare gathered them up and tucked them away for safekeeping, and once she had made sure that there was nothing left there for her to do, she retreated from the clearing. There was much to think about, much to consider, but before she could do that she would need to rest.
Fighting ghosts was draining business, to be sure.
I'm on the wrong side of heaven and the righteous side of hell
How did one combat an empire that could read into their very souls?
The shadows drummed along his eyes, and he glanced into the threads and seams of darkness; conspiring once more – pondering how one could fight the malice and menace from within. With more? With less? With the same remorseless force shown and savaged upon them?
The considerations coiled within his mind, trapped there in the hissing sounds, in the sibilance, in the cauldron of brewing contortions. The warrior pressed back into the void, disappearing from whence he’d come, determined not to fall apart so easily (not again, not ever again), when the snares were drawn, when the kingdom saw his weaknesses, drew his flaws. It was another promise yet to be fulfilled.
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