Riptide Isles the mountains became sand - Printable Version +- the Rift (http://riftrpg.net) +-- Forum: Archives (http://riftrpg.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=20) +--- Forum: Year 1173 (http://riftrpg.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=29) +---- Forum: Incompleted (http://riftrpg.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=26) +---- Thread: Riptide Isles the mountains became sand (/showthread.php?tid=256) |
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the mountains became sand - Rikyn - 07-17-2017
@Erebos RE: the mountains became sand - Erebos - 07-17-2017
Poised like Poseidon from another time, another place, when the great valleys yawned and no one felt the tremor, when the echoing tides didn’t promise devastation, he stood on top of the waves and pondered. It was as if the Riptide had been pulled right along with them, down into the bowels of hell, into Stygian pursuits and revelations; given life and treachery like everything else in their disturbing, hollowed sphere. The vortex, the gaping, giant maw proffered other promises, and the temptation echoed through his soul, through his mind, through his broken, barely beating heart – because he could race to it, end everything now, launch straight into its devouring mouth and no one would know, no one would care, no one would be the wiser – just another infidel, another fool gone, gone, gone into the midst. It was an enticing proposition after everything, death, death, and more death, the Basin plunging into darkness without its time, without its spark, without its empire, his father forever gone from his reach (because at least he’d been stone, he’d been rubble, he’d been there, right beyond the marble of his tomb, and he could’ve rested his head against its surface and pretended every word he said was heard), and Enyo vanishing into the air. Barbaric and twisted, he stood there amidst the rolling, petulant hold, a titan, a shell, all the potential in the world and not enough willpower to do anything but splinter, fracture, and drift away on the current. He could hear Orsino spitting, hissing, along the shoreline, trying to get him to come back, to rest along the dunes and they could try to find her again, just give one more try, but the eldritch cyclone along the sea continued to ripple through his eyes. He was a storm, and another could eat him too – swallowed into his chosen gallows before the earth had one more opportunity to destroy him. He had nothing left to give. So he walked and he walked, traced the shoreline with his hooves, with his daggers, with his cutlasses and knives, wondering how far he could go before everything ended and naught existed – no pain, no torment, no loss – but Orsino just kept calling and calling, an echo, a throng, and the prince gnashed his teeth together. What else was he supposed to do? What the hell did this world have to offer? Why didn’t he just stay with the rest of them, behind in Helovia, become one more soldier eaten away by Kaos’ reign? As volatile as the ocean, as pernicious as the abysmal treachery cast into their lungs, into their minds (an irreverent, immoral concoction; he breathed it in until the fumes filled his skull and he could cast the haunted memories away from the edges of his eyes), he strayed further along the embankment, wondering how long it would be until naught stopped him from racing into the currents and becoming free of the overwhelming burdens (and maybe, together again – back with the souls who’d already been snatched and taken from him). His stare cut across the ruins, landing precariously on a familiar etching of brown and gold, and the warrior sighed. If he was straining under the cumbersome weight of everything, then how did Rikyn still remain, chained and locked and tethered here, unable to escape too? He couldn’t leave him behind. Erebos swallowed down the pungent taste of bile closing over his tongue, and moved with precision, with cutting, slashing motions (if he wasn’t lined with anguish, it was anger), unwinding and unfurling until he was several paces away from his blood brother and he didn’t know what else to do, to say. Orsino crept along his left side, and absentmindedly the boy glanced to his right, and when the empty sanction tore into him again, he whipped his head around to just stare directly at his King and wonder how they’d gotten this far. “Rikyn,” he nodded, trying to put on a smile that died before it even managed to align across his features, then had naught else to add that wouldn’t be faulty, wouldn’t be ruined, wouldn’t tear the world apart. “I-,” he started, then stopped, usually so eloquent, capable of charismatic sanctions and charming discourses, but incapable of saying anything to his best friend. “Have you figured anything out about this place?” He spoke instead, because it felt safe, instead of a barb, a dagger, straight into his heart. Erebos clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in @Rikyn RE: the mountains became sand - Rikyn - 07-18-2017
RE: the mountains became sand - Erebos - 07-20-2017
They were gifted, blessed, and consecrated with the art of avoidance. They could paint oeuvres, masterpieces, on the subject of evading and escaping from merciless edges, from topics threatening to wound, to barb, to hurt, even when the other had experienced much of the same. The pair could’ve shared their melancholy, their doubts, their muddled, mottled thoughts, commiserated on the state of hellholes and the chaos crumbling, threatening, to consume them. They would’ve understood one another, living mirrored lives, father’s dying, empires disappearing, savage, nefarious acts coursing through their veins. But they didn’t – because it was easier to lie, to hide, and to conceal how many times they’d been pierced from inward swords. It was easier to beckon the truth away from their souls, to twist and turn and fall apart with no one watching, no one staring, no one believing, seeing the weaknesses clawing from within – but Erebos knew he had enough buried so much that it threatened to bubble and froth over, to split him down from seam to seam, from rubble to ruin, and there’d be nothing left of him. He was consumed and devoured and swallowed by the chaos, by the conflicts, by everything he’d left behind – even the momentary contentment, satisfaction, of destroying an enemy (but not being able to say, not being able to be proud of the colossal achievement of destroying an enemy). He was certain Rikyn could view it all too, read him like an open book, stare and stare until he saw just how much he’d coiled and curled away, stuck between destruction, mayhem, and calamity, no longer the scion, the youth emboldened with promise. There was too much damage, too many scars, too many horrors and afflictions murmuring with abhorrence and persecution, and he glanced out to the sea again and again, wondering if that would be the only way to rid himself of the pain, the melancholy, the roughened edges and the tarnished soul. It never stops raining earned the slightest of smiles, the vague, small indentation of his smile, because he’d always enjoyed the rain – the very image of his mother – and then allowed it to falter when he thought of his father, caught in his last moments in the drowning deluge. As if by mere coincidence, or perhaps summoned by the sheer notion of its existence, a few droplets descended onto his coat, crossing over his skull marking (heritage and legacy; something they both comprehended well, strived to outlast shadows and demons), not noticing the miniscule sparks glowering in its wake. He responded instead, muted, tucked away, barely there, mind embossed and embedded in the sphere of soullessness dragging him down, down, down. “All this place seems to do is take.” The grin died there, ears turning in the briefest of Rikyn’s revelations, like a little scrap of information, delivered simply because they were friends and the once King could unleash his frustrations (but never the innermost sentiments; those were reserved to wither and decay for years to come) towards a boyhood companion. He didn’t have any advice though. His experience with Enna’s moods and his inability to read situations didn’t bear well for counsel or guidance (and he couldn’t tell her what he’d done for her). “Did you do something again?” His brow arched, vague, presuming Rikyn had come to fault and blemish at some point, for while the beast had his virtues, he also had his flaws (usually whatever spewed from his mouth; hostile, blunt, curt). Then he glanced against the horizon, pondering if he should reveal something too, if this was an opportunity to take part, share, give in to proclamations (but not into the deepest of fathoms, where his heart lay broken and disheveled, in shards, in slivers, in fragments). “Enyo disappeared,” was all he had, and even then, his voice sounded corroded, shaken, and blistered. “I keep looking for her, but-” The emptiness, the gaping hole beside him, was enough to know he hadn’t been successful, one more pledge, one more oath, going unanswered. Erebos clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in @Rikyn |