WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE YOUNG MAN'S HEART? SWALLOWED BY PAIN AS HE SLOWLY FELL APART Most of the Rift's forests feel safe in their familiarity; Volterra can lose himself in their depths and pretend he is still in Helovia, as long as he ignores the terrifying new flora and fauna. This forest, though, is completely different to any he's encountered either here or in Helovia, shattering any illusion that he has managed to hold onto. He's never seen ferns so large that they tower above even a man of his great size, or plants so bright they feel like they're burning his corneas out. Vadir's massive wings cast a shadow across the titan's broad back as he walks through this eerie new forest, his ears rammed forwards and his muscles tense in readiness for anything that might jump out of the overlarge undergrowth at him. This is not home. The stallion knows this, try as he might to ignore it. Although he is a pillar of strength and fortitude for his family, matter-of-fact and stern as he leads them into this brave new world, when he's on his own he finds his resolve crumbling. He finds himself living in hope, embracing the naiivety that he desperately clings onto - the idea that this is only temporary, that Helovia is just on the other side of the portal, and that he will be able to return there one day. There's the fact he still hasn't grieved for Isopia, either - is it denial, or merely an unwillingness to admit weakness in the form of letting himself crumble? Volterra is self-aware enough to understand that the reality of her death will almost crush him when he finally allows himself to accept the truth and mourn her, and he simply hasn't had the time to schedule in an emotional breakdown. He carries around the golem he's made in her likeness; an effigy, a monument. He keeps it close to him at all times, protecting it like he would a child. It's next to him as he explores this strange new land, walking woodenly through the grass. Unlike most of his creations, this one has lasted longer than a few seconds, but it's desperately fragile and far too small to be of any use in battle - the warlord has no intention on using it in such a way, as he crafted it purely so he can always have a piece of his love with him. He talks to it often, but always in a hushed voice so as to avoid detection. Whatever would his family or the Helovian populace think if they were to discover Volterra - indomitable warlord, fiery Sultan, dragon-lord, the embodiment of earthen strength and stoic ferocity - talking to a living statue of his dead lover? In the depths of this creepily bright forest, he feels safe enough to lift his voice slightly. "What do you think, kis hollo?" he rumbles to the statue, lowering his mighty skull so as to nudge it affectionately. It's too small, hard, stony and lava-filled to truly allow him to think of Isopia when he touches it, but his imagination is a wonderful thing and he can almost picture her alongside him, no doubt offering an intelligent insight into this land's odd ferns and yellow flowers. "What would you think of all of this, I wonder?" It's a painful reminder that he'll never find out. There's a sting in his eyes; that strong, stoic face of his crumples slightly into a frown as he bites back the tears that burn in his throat. He will not let them fall; it's too soon for such an admission of weakness, even if there's nobody around to see it but Vadir. |
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Solanis
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Currently championing:
Currently championing:
08-09-2017, 03:39 AM
Power.
It’s intoxicating, really. In more ways than one to the conglomerate god. Five ways, to be exact. A way for each of these dead old hags in his mind, and one way for himself. Forever contorting feet, currently clawed cloven pads, bite into the bright yellow flowers he had thought to collect not moments before—or was it longer? The god wasn’t sure; time was such an obscure thing. He was ancient (—or was he young? a child of gods, or the embodiment of them?—), so what was a few moments, hours, centuries? Today, antlers curl from a feline-like face; though they churn and shift, never quite matching in shape, size, or color. Though his eyes are bright teal and decidedly cat-like, his muzzle is long and protruding, like a snake’s. His body, however, is oddly wholly cervid; though of what species is anyone’s guess, for it’s size and colors are forever changing. But, really, why bother describing the god when he’s just a mess of shifting, spare parts? Mis-matched ears flicker, teal eyes with slit pupils dart towards the sounds of a voice. A deep voice—nearly deeper than his own. Could he make his own voice deeper? Yes, of course. He was a god. He could do as he liked. A deep chuckle bubbled from his lips at the thought—but quickly died. He was doing something…wasn’t he? As quickly as the thoughts came and went through his mind (with alarming speed and quantity since the Rift had been so throughly charged with Helovian magic), Kisamoa was suddenly alongside the prone dragon—no. That’s not right. The dragon was behind him (—above him?—), and it was a large black stallion laying down. Acting much faster than his mind or words, two long talons from his mutated feet hook around the lava-creation which was speaking (or, more aptly, being spoken to). His long, deer-like limb brings up this small, frail statue so that he might inspect. But, in truth, he already knows everything about it—its creation, its meaning, it lifespan, its ruin, its power… but he just can’t quite remember it all. His mind is a hive of activity; too many voices in too small a space. His body is electrified with too much power. Though he is a champion of his beloved Rift, he was never meant to come into being. He’s simply a substitute for others powers…quite like this statue that teetered in his claws. He squinted at it, “Remarkable day to be in Solanis, isn’t it?” It wasn’t entirely apparent if he was speaking to the statue, the stallion, or (perhaps) both. beauty in darkness kaos in light .. and kaos opened up its eyes
Currently championing:
08-09-2017, 07:00 PM
@Kisamoa
Currently championing:
08-09-2017, 09:43 PM
Bright teal eyes sharpen on the best of a stallion that seems to morph before his very gaze. The dark warlord goes from soft, sad (—grieving, but the god’s hive-mind isn’t ready for another round of guilt it felt with the last broken Helovian—) to tall titan made hard with angry threats. Amusingly (to Kis), this man is taller than he in his current, odds cervid form; though the god’s mutated antlers reach high above both male bodies and the gold dragon, as if compensating (for his smaller stature, of course).
His head cocks ever so slightly; is this what it is like to watch himself mutate? The god is self-aware enough to know that he holds no true form…but is watching his body change akin to watching this man grow with Movement in his claws brings his attention back to the small, flailing limbs of the lava creature. Volterra (—he knew his name? how? oh, of course he knew his name, he had gods crawling through his veins—) had demanded it be put down. And, Kisamoa being the creature that he was, instead started tightening those razor sharp claws around its wiggling, writhing middle. …but something made him stop. Mismatched ears flicker around, in an odd moment of uncertainty (though it seemed the Deceiver was having more and more of these moments, lately). Glowing teal eyes look up from the small statue, whose midsection was now in a viselike grip between his talons, and to the indomitable stallion…perhaps not quite so indomitable, in this moment? Kisamoa looked from horse to statue, pupils becoming round rather than predatory; muzzle shifting between a few creatures in his uncertainty. What has his mind, now overcharged with Rift energy, noticed that halted his crushing claws? He couldn’t find it…yet. So, he placed the small statue one the ground; but quickly caged it within his over-long claws that dug into the soil around it. “What is it, to you?” His voice, a lighter baritone than the goliath’s, surprisingly held no animosity or condescension in the question. Just a burning curiosity. beauty in darkness kaos in light @Volterra .. and kaos opened up its eyes
Currently championing:
08-14-2017, 04:23 PM
@Kisamoa
Currently championing:
08-19-2017, 11:36 PM
Volterra’s rage, evidenced by the pinned ears and twitching muscles and growling words, both intrigue and provoke the god.
He knows rage. He feels it burn from each of the four in his mind. “Lost?" Kisamoa also knows loss. He knows the loss of physical form, this quartet from hell scream in his skull; he knows the loss of a He shrugged off those deaths, cervid shoulders suddenly slipping to lanky feline ones with the movement; and his neck became equid. They were unfortunate and avoidable, had these mortal creatures simply come to the Rift rather than trying to stop him. “I wouldn’t understand?” One cannot miss the mockery in his baritone voice as he parrots the man’s growl. A dangerously amused grin crosses those shifting lips, “Try me.” Does he mean to provoke the very physical threaten from the man? Or does he mean to inspire confidence (hah)? It’s doubtful if even the god knows. Shaking his head once more, trying to focus the many, ping-pong like thoughts that ricocheted with each new pulse of life through his Portal, his antlered head (—but wait, the antlers were gone, now—) refocused on the thing beneath his claws. But gone were his claws, and removed were his hand, releasing the figurine once more. Oh. When had he done that? Teal eyes widen, studying the small bits of fire that leap out from the fissures his talons had made in the rock sides. Was he releasing it as an act of goodwill? Did he have goodwill? No. Maybe? Possibly. But probably not. A sudden breath pushed out of his nostrils. It condensed into thick, black and teal-edged smoke that enshrouded the one-free golem. Though it didn’t seem to harm it—in fact, aside from clinging to the small thing, it seemed to have no affect on the creation at all. Yet. Was this a test? A game? Who were the participants and what was the prize? Or perhaps it was Kisamoa simply playing with all the magic the Rift had amassed. Even gods had to let off some steam. beauty in darkness kaos in light @Volterra .. and kaos opened up its eyes
Currently championing:
08-28-2017, 12:52 PM
@Kisamoa
Currently championing:
09-15-2017, 08:53 AM
[ I am very sorry this took so long. @Volterra ]
Curious. The cloud of death wrapped itself around the golem, and Kisamoa found himself watching it more intently than he watched Volterra—oh, he was not stupid, he was well aware of what the black stallion thought of him, but at that point in time, Kisamoa still had the upper hand. He could bound away with improbable speed, or melt into the surroundings, even manipulate them to his bidding, while Volterra was crippled by his soul struggling to adapt to the power flows of the Rift. But make no mistake: Volterra would grow in power, and this, too, Kisamoa knew. But for now, he was only a broken man, and Kaos felt safe, even though the things in his mind screamed bloody murder and hated, so viscerally, the shape of the golem. Well—he frowned a little, barely noticing how Volterra started forward and stopped. Three of the four yelled bloody murder. "Of course," the demon agreed, and though he did not sound sincere, he did not sound insincere, either. His black-and-teal eyes spun, before honing in on the indomitable warlord again. The loss of his love had certainly subdued him, but the spark within remained—Kisamoa could feel it. "Did you know," he went on after just a heartbeat, "that she tried to protect Vourib—the bear? While the Helovians gathered to slaughter him, she fought for him." His lips pulled back in a grotesque smile, and then he fell silent, waiting for the explanation. beauty in darkness kaos in light .. and kaos opened up its eyes
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