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Home » Search » Roster » Whitepages » Records » FAQ » Guidebook
» Lost & Found
Open Solanis 
Currently championing:
He wondered, when he had gone from cold, calculated, and precise, to lost and irrational. He wondered, as he stalked through the shadows of the world—bleeding, always bleeding, leaving a trail of black blood and charred prints—why he had done some of that which he had.

What siren call had he heard of redemption, absolution, and mercy? What, in a boy's broken life, had made him willing to cross so many boundaries that were never meant to be crossed?

He was desperate.

And the gods were silent. He wore their broken bodies because it was all that he had, the accidental fifth presence, the strange intersection of four ravaged deities, but the spaces around him were empty. The gods had abandoned their corpses for the allure of the spirit world, lurking as memories and shadows within their own haunted lands. They were, in a strange sense, at peace. Stubbornness and anger and sheer strength of will had pulled them from their graves, but now, they were home.

All but Vourib; he was a sullen, silent thing, barely there in the recesses of Kisamoa's mind.

It was like they didn't even notice that their lands were ravaged and befouled and broken—they were too dead to care.

But Kisamoa knew it. He felt it, how the earth was drained of its power and vigor, how the colors seemed just a little less vibrant day by day. Robbed of the gods' single-minded purpose and direction, he drifted.

Idly, he wondered if he had wanted to be a hero—if his attempts to pull the dead from the Scint River had been more than just a disturbed prank, a show of goodwill he knew would go wrong (though, he admitted, he had underestimated just how wrong). He wondered, and he drifted further, cloaked by the crocodile's magic. Caevoc's spine had fused to Kisamoa's. He barely noticed the pain anymore.

And at some point, as he drifted through the currents in between what was real and what was not quite so, he began to see something new.

They were tiny and bright, little sparks suspended in the air, as if they had snagged against the veil separating the Rift from the rest of the hungry void. At first, he paid them no more than wary glances, for they burned his tired eyes, but the more of them he found, the more.. the more he found himself inclined to touch them.

One day, he caved in. His plush muzzle, a little blood-smeared from his ravaged, green-glowing mouth, touched one of the sparks.

It was warm. It was pleasant. It—it felt good to touch.

It frightened him, in a sense, but everything he had tried to achieve had come crashing down around him, so he found himself too tired to properly be afraid. The lands still bled out the life force of the Rift, day by day, and he, an agent of destruction, was powerless to stop it. He had dragged the inhabitants of Helovia here, after ruthlessly killing their gods and several of their kin, but most of them had found ways to slip through his net and find other, maybe brighter, realms to live in.

Kisamoa, along with so many of his natives, and so many of the Helovians, had lost hope. He had waited for his world to die, and to die with it.

Until he touched that spark.

It stuck to him. It threaded its light voice through his mind, his bones, his blood, and he found himself thinking that maybe, maybe, things would be alright. He would find some way. They would find a way.

For every spark he touched, his certainty grew—as did the spark, now a ball of warm, pleasant light. How he brought it with him wherever he went he did not know, and he was afraid to question it, lest it break the spell.

And, at some point, he realized what it was that he had found: hope.

He stood in the light of the solar flowers in Solanis, his pasterns scorched and blistered by their touch—they had never been kind to him, those flowers—and his black blood dribbled from his spine down his rugged, scarred legs, hissing lightly where it touched the earth. A tiger-striped cloak hung from his shoulders, and somewhere behind him, a dark, shadowy demon stood, twirling a sword made of bone. The hissing of the blade cutting through the air somehow failed to sound dangerous.

Kisamoa pulled the shadows from himself, for the first time since the Scint had been swallowed. He breathed in the air, cold and crisp but with a hint of warmth to come.

"Will you come?" he asked of the world, and of those who were left—hope in his voice, hope in his heart.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light

:O What's going on?
Next Kisamoa post will be on the 19th December!

For clarification, these sparks are only visible if you're crawling along the divide between reality and "unreality", a place only Kisamoa can go. ^^ But, the big ball of it he's brought along, everyone can see!
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
Currently championing:
uh-oh, running out of breath, but I
oh, I, I got stamina

The forest of color had been her home now for several weeks, and Roscorro had been with her the majority of that time, whether she had actively seen him or not. It was no different now, she was sure. Though the large dragon man was no where in plain view, the filly would have placed a bet on her guardian not being far, or, if he was gone, that he would return shortly.

She had taken to staying in the clearing in which she'd tripped on him, and it was where she was now. Though she wouldn't admit it, she had grown accustomed to the man's company, and sort of missed him when he was off doing whatever he did without her. She'd already learned her lesson about wandering after adults when they'd asked you to stay somewhere, however, and though the time without her friend was boring and scary, Gwyn did her best to do as she was told.

It was often harder to do than one would think.

The ice of the strange winter gave way to a heat that was akin to a dragon's breath, or so the filly's imagination described it. Her activities in the clearing when she was alone had changed with the times; no longer did she gather up wood for the fire, or carefully nudge the coals into place. She, instead, hugged the shade, and wished with all her heart that there was a lake closer by than the one beneath the mountain for her to cool off in. Leaning against a tree in utter discontent, the filly sighs mournfully.

A voice answers her.

'Will you come?'

Lifting her head and looking out towards the stranger's summons, her first thought is that she shouldn't go. It could be a ruse, after all, and following some beckoning thing she didn't know was probably unwise. She had been here a long time, though, and she was bored, as well as miserably hot. Perhaps a distraction would help?

The distraction, however, was an unpleasant one. Though she doesn't recognize some of the changes that have come over him (a physical body, for one), the filly stops dead in her tracks as soon as she sees the god. Something about him is gratingly familiar, and it makes her belly fill with ice, and her knees begin to tremble. Immediately regretting her decision to come out this way, her ears slip back, and her pale blue eyes scrutinize the being with both fear and her standard, naive boldness.

She doesn't speak, rather stares, her ears and eyes watchful for any sign to run, or someone to run to, as well as other clues as to why this stranger is so familiar, when he is also so very frightening. Her nostrils wrinkle as she drinks in the smell of the blood falling to the earth beneath him, fully expecting the smell of decay and rot.

Image by Jody Roberts@Flickr
I'm just wild
so sit the f#@k down

please tag gwyn for opening posts & mentions in group threads only
Roscorro the Dragon Heart
Currently championing: Caevoc
Gwyn was not wrong the assume that the giant stallion was near by. He did not go very far from her these days. Not since he had stolen Kiada and Taivas had found him collapsed in the desert ,weighed down by the grief in his heart. The shinning mare had saved him with her kindness. And though that voice still remained, telling him that he would one day bring harm to her and Gwyn, he deeply valued the mare's friendship. Because of her he was still here, still holding on. Still surviving. Though he had certainly become more solemn, he did his best to hide any sadness from Gwyn.

She was a perceptive little squirt and he did not want her to worry over him. He had come to adore the feisty filly. Though she did have a rather strong character at times, to put it nicely, he was never truly bothered by it. At least, he had never reached the end of his patience. He was quite long suffering and kind. Though he was not a push over. Gwyn had quickly become his second savoir. Watching over her demanded his full attention. There was no time to dwell upon the hurt he had caused, or the fact that he would never be able to make amends. Though she could not always see him, he was close by. Always within hearing range should she need him. Had he the need to go further he would always instruct her to wait for him. And she did. He was impressed and touched that she would listen to him. Though she did not show it, he knew that she was becoming attached to him. As he was with her. It would be hard letting her go when they found her father. Neither one of them had the slightest idea where to look. He only hoped that one day they would stumbling into one another along the course of their explorations.

As the days changed from bitter cold to sweltering, the stallion had considered moving to a more cool place. Or at least somewhere closer to the waters. This place was becoming to oppressively hot to stand for much longer. He had taken to searching for a suitable place that they could relocate to the past couple of days and he had a couple ideas where they could go. He had to talk to Gwyn about it first though. He had just returned from his latest scouting trip intending to speak with her on the matter. But the talk would not happen today. His head lifted when a strange voice reached his ears. "Will you come?" He hadn't the slightest idea who had beckoned him. Though he had little reason to answer the call. He most likely would not have had he not caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Gwyn had begun to move. Head cocking he followed. She must have heard the voice too and chose to answer. Maybe she knew it? Like a giant, watchful shadow he trailed behind her, smoke falling off of his form in wispy trails.

It did not take long before Roscorro spotted the disturbing form of the Kaos. Though he was one to talk. The behemoth had never seen a creature like the one who stood before them. He was far more of a terror than the dragon-kin. The sight of him seemed to have an effect upon his young charge. He noticed the way her knees shook, yet she chose not to bolt. Instinctively the stallion came up next to her. Unfolding his wings he wrapped them protectively around the young girl, a feeble barrier against a god should he attack, but the need to shield Gwyn from the stallion outweighed logic. He stared at the other with a cool gaze. His posture showing his protectiveness of Gwyn, though it was not hostile as of yet. "Do you know him?" Was all he asked. His eyes never leaving the stranger's form, though his words were addressed to Gwyn. The light from the spark the strange one possessed shone in his storm grey eyes. Like lighting flitting through dark clouds within his pools.


But You Cannot Break My Hope!
I'm Still Undefeated!
image || coding

Roscorro is a protective daddy. He has sought to wrap his wings around Gwyn in a protective manner while he watches Kaos expectantly. (He hasn't the slightest idea what is going on).
You have my permission to use magic/force against Roscorro.
Maiming and killing is not allowed, though. 
Taivas the Hopebringer
Currently championing: Reszo
Exploration brought Taivas toward the Western Mists, whereas she normally sat guard in a tree closer toward the Portal to the sullen land. With the receding cold touch of winter, a new itch rose in her skin and spirit. The thick coat she had built to survive the harsher months now quickly abandoned her, sloughing off en masse. Soft undercoat floated through the thick, humid air as she flew, torn loose by the heat and speed of flight. The soft pallid fur fell, mimicking the snow that had dominated the land just a couple of weeks prior. The lack of spring, or micro-spring (if the few days in which the snow melted could be called such), was somewhat jolting to the mare at first.

Now, she became accustomed to the heat. Something within her bones recognized the oppressive sun as familiar; though she had never visited the Dragon's Throat, her mother's blood knew it well.

The land which stretched below her flourished after the weight of snow and ice had receded. Vibrant green branches sprung upward, the leaves drinking in the natural moisture of the Western Mists. Below, a tapestry of neon colors could be seen peaking through the massive, oval shaped leaves and thick, moss covered trunks. To see greenery brought a warmth to her heart, penetrating deeper than the beaming sun. The mood in her mind was light and carefree, even as the summer air thick with moisture pushed in at her body as she traveled.

However, the mood was not to remain so.

Abruptly, terribly so, a voice cuts through the air like a violent knife, wrenching into her mind unbidden and unwanted. The mare is stunned by the intrusion, seeing no source to the voice, and she begins to careen downward haphazardly toward the trees for a moment. With an indelicate shove of her wings, she rights herself in the air, and takes the time to consider the request once more.

Will you come?

The voice is unfamiliar, but the tone is hopeful and bright, despite its initial disturbance to her thoughts and soul. The shaman hovers in the air for a moment, pondering her next move. Much like Uwaritace, this voice came from the air, with no apparent speaker. The burned mother tree had touched her heart, and this is ultimately what drives her decision to seek the hopeful speaker below.

Navigating into the meadow not far ahead, Taivas almost regrets her decision, were it not for two familiar figures already standing attention to the dark monster.

The painted girl lands gently in the grass below and travels herself directly toward Roscorro and the spirited filly she had met before. However, her dark set eyes are not looking at the dragon boy and his friend, but rather the nightmarish god before them.

He looks to be mangled, bleeding from various punctures along his spine, where that of another looks entrenched painfully in his flesh. Behind him, a figure swathed in shadows and gloom floated, wielding a bone-like sword. Upon his shoulder hung a blood stained pelt of a tiger. In front of him, a shining orb of pulsing energy dances, mesmerizingly beautiful, especially in contrast to the creature it accompanied. His face, though - oh, what a haunting face, indeed. Taivas's ears lay flat on her skull. Her muscles tense, protesting every step closer to the demented thing standing in front of them.

Yet, her face was calm, and, surprisingly, so was her mind. She continued to hear the faint echoes of the request, replaying steadily in that hopeful and even gentle tone. Will you come?

She falls in line beside Roscorro, opposite of the little girl he protectively shielded with his wing. Taivas says nothing at first, only nods in solemn greeting to her friend while looking at the strange, ghoulish thing before them. After looking at him for another moment, the shaman musters up enough courage to speak. The desire to help outweighs all other fears.

"Are you in need of aid?"
So seize the day 'Cause you have come so far
Watched a million frowns turn into smiles
Lost all track of time Felt the energy of a million stars
You'll feel love again after the rain

[ ooc - Stand beside Roscorro, on the side not occupied by Gwyn. ]
Currently championing:
as the sun set on another, you fell through dying dreams
I almost do not respond.

For, I know better than to go galavanting after a disembodied voice in a strange land. I know that it is unwise to seek out the speaker who can whisper in your ear as if they are next to you, when they are not. I know well enough that monsters often lure in prey with similar manners.

They are harmless at first, dangling sweet promises before you. For the angler fish, it is the light dangled in front of sharp teeth, invisible in the depths of the ocean. For me, though, it was my own father.

I remember, still.

The sun rose higher into the sky, and the hours slipped silently by in the small alcove that had become my home. The tiny corner of a forest blocked by boulders, opening above to the sky of brilliant blue. The mournful tendrils of weeping willows reaching toward the small pond. Though my father had locked me away to live outside of the eye of his nation, my life remained sweet in that little nook.

Until that day.

He strode into my meadow, his face grim and his eyes mad. The death of his first, legitimate heir had wracked him with grief, I knew. Within his own home, the dismembered head of Cyphre sat rotting like a disturbed trophy upon a mantle still, but he insisted no one remove it. Thus, his expression did not worry me. Instead, I wondered idly what he had come to discuss. His words stunned me, for her spoke the sentence I longed to hear since my childhood: you may come home, Raein, and live as my son.

I know now that these words were really poison, coming to take away the life I loved, albeit lonely at times.

With the promise of acceptance and the love of my father, I followed him willingly into a trap.

So, I know better than to listen to the voice calling, however harmlessly.
Which is why, even as my hooves drag my body through the forest and toward a bright meadow, I do not really understand what I am doing.
Even moreso when I see him.

A monster, by just about any definition, stands before a line of equines. I pause on the outskirts of the meeting, not wishing to draw any nearer to the thing that stands, bleeding freely into the soil and smelling of burnt flesh and disease.

I am somewhat amazed by the greyscale mare who asks, without any hint of hesitation, if the thing needs help. I scoff inwardly, looking at the filly quaking with fear and her protector - the giant a familiar shape. Roscorro, the foolish boy I had met within the Rainforest.

After the initial shock, I settle into a vigilant yet comfortable position. While this beast looked like a monster, at least he did not try to hide the potential to harm and deceive. I found him more tolerable and trustworthy than the smiling faces of my home.

Not that it was a particularly difficult feat.

[ ooc - standing as far back as possible ]
Currently championing:
This new world is empty.

You've flown recklessly across its skies, underneath a scorching sun. You've careened into its deepest, darkest shadows. You've nearly drowned yourself in its seas. You've screamed into the nights and days alike, until your voice is nothing but a croak.

You've cried and cried and cried, lonely and desolate and desperate, but nothing has answered your pleas. You've barely met anyone, and in your reckless search for a way home, you've lost most of those you met, anyway. They're gone, somewhere in this vast, violent world, and you have little hope of finding them. There's just too many places to look, and not enough of you.

The raw, bleeding wound in your heart has even begun to scab.

Or you're just bleeding out.

But as the days pass, from cold, harsh blizzards to scorching heat, you're grateful you didn't even have a winter coat to shed. You fly and you fly and you fly, letting the chilly heights of the sky cool you, always looking, and never seeing. You've covered every inch of this fucked-up place—with the new scars to prove it—yet you can't describe what it looks like. It's just not home and there doesn't seem to be any way out of it. Once, you flew south across the sea for as long as you could, and you've learned the hard way that you can fly far.

There was only the unending sea. Hour upon hour. In the end, you let your aching wings fold, and fell into it. Miraculously, it carried you back to shore, and after that, some of your desperation stilled.

Or it was your hope that died.

It was tempting to stop flying. To stop looking. Your frantic flights became fewer, and while your body might be grateful for the respite, it came at a price: you, ever cheerful, ever curious and bright, became listless and apathetic. Your spirit curled up and withered away. You began to become the ghost Taivas had saved you from becoming.

"Will you come?"

Startled, you throw yourself away from the creek you'd been drinking from, sunshine flashing in the water droplets—a couple of steps away you freeze, legs splayed, head high, nostrils flared. Your heart, previously so dead and tired, is thudding painfully in your chest.

You're not used to having anybody's thoughts but your own in your head. You're not afraid to admit it: you're startled, and frightened, and in your hopelessness, the voice is impossible to resist. It seems to radiate everything you have lost.

You take off at a run, spreading your wings and leaping into the sky. The strange land—you're still not quite used to seeing it—flashes by beneath you, and you know yourself well enough to admit something: you're hoping that you're not the only to be called by the strange presence. You're hoping that Taivas will be there. You're hoping to be proved wrong, that you're not the only goddamn sod still around in this awful place.

You nearly drop out of the sky when you catch sight of the gathering, without even having noticed Taivas. You can't properly put words on it, but what you're seeing—it's like a wound in the world itself, an ugly impossibility, something so dark and so vile that you're wondering if your senses have tricked you. Surely that, monstrous and shifting and crudely put together with ridged scars, is not..? Its blood, hissing as it touches the earth, smells foul.

But, as you right yourself from your shock, you remind yourself that those who came shrieking in the night, burning down your safe, peaceful world for nothing (that you knew, at least) were not monsters; they were horses, just like everyone else. Just like.. you.

Slowly, you spiral from the merciless sky. The thing is even more disconcerting up close; instinctively, you touch the place in your soul where your magic resides, wondering if the broken monster falls within the jurisdiction of things mortal and fixable, but you don't quite dare to try. Instead, you swallow, and stand next to Taivas, wondering why such a hellish creature had been capable of calling them with such a gentle voice.
Explorer Kiada
Currently championing: Vjanta
your battle-worn tongue doesn't say the truth anymore;

She had felt the call long before hearing it with her own ears. It pulled and thrashed against her chest where her glowing, endless oozing wound along her chest was located. But rather than the dark pulsating that had her moving toward the first time she set eyes on Kisamoa in this land, where she had yelled at the god for the unfairness shown in this land; this somehow felt different. She heaved a breath, ears perked and listening as his voice trailed across the world in a purring rumble, so unlike what she’d heard from him aside from perhaps the tenderness of his voice when she plunged into the river of the dead for him – to save him. And she, unlike the useless warrior child she thought she was, had that voice reverberate in her mind that she was unlike anything else. She had helped save a god, and in turn, he had saved her.

Of course, the growing coughing fits she began to get used to day after day, that ragged and gurgling inhale that her body tried to regret, was a reminder of her stupidity and bravery in saving the thread that kept the world together. She inhaled as deeply as she could, tightening her armor around her as if she were afraid it would leave her once again. Her mind shot to Roscorro, of how she’d have to apologize for losing her mind at him that day, and hoped that he too had heard the call of the God, the one she had told him of, the mixed bodied man that was sure to strike fear in everything and everyone – save for her. “Will you come?” It had sounded pleasant, hopeful, and continued to vibrate her mind as her hooves moved along the ground as silent as she could muster through the heat that kept her hide slick with a small sheen of sweat.

Fire was not welcome for her, anymore. It was too hot to even care about such stupidity. One small fire and she was sure the world around her would light up as though the earth was simply made of matchsticks. And yet, she reigned in the humming burn beneath her skin as she and Khairi went toward the call.

The vulture let out a call, creeping and excited at the ball that hovered and glowed beside the god. And despite the awe that filled Kiada, she couldn’t tear her eyes off of that figure, that figure of hope that they had needed so long in this darkness. Tears burned her eyes and she wasn’t sure if she was showing weakness or if it were the heat and blinding light that had caused such a reaction, but she pushed it down, hiding the tears that wanted to fall. There would be no tears today. And despite the crowd gathering, giving Kisamoa distance, she felt that foolish bravery kicking into her as she reached the line –

And then stepped over it, padding over to stand before Kisamoa, before everyone, bowing her head and offering her god a small smile of greeting. “For you, I’ll always come.” She whispered to him, her eyes lingering on the depth of him, not his figure that looked hellish as always, but the strange feeling of hope that radiated from him that she hoped she could see within those eyes – eyes of which had stared her down as she swam with him in the nothingness that was the Scint River. And she hoped she made the right choice, continuing to follow this god despite those of her kin from Helovia who she was sure would just as soon want to see the god smite her for her audacity.

Then, she moved away from him, spotting Roscorro in the crowd alongside a child she hadn’t known the name of, as well as a mare she had yet to meet, and another stranger. It seemed he had quite the crowd of friends. And despite her better judgement, she moved to greet him, offering him a solemn, sorrowful smile. “Later, when this is over, I would like to apologize. ” She spoke to Roscorro briefly, waiting to see if he’d respond or choose not to, before moving a distance away from the others, but still on the front line – if not a few paces over it – to allow space so her recklessness didn’t get anyone else involved. Then, her eyes fell completely on the god in front of her. Her god.


and you wonder why he lets you, (the butcher),
touch him, (the sun)


Greets Kisamoa, then speaks to @Roscorro and stands in front but away from those gathered!

K'yarie the Hopebringer
Currently championing:
She seems to materialize from the shadows, summoned by the voice. It was a foreign presence. A hopeful whisper that had entered her mind. Yet it held a familiar touch to it. Something about it called to her. It was as if The Rift itself was beckoning her. The mare elegantly walked towards the others, her gaze naturally falling upon the being that had summoned them. Her violet gaze swept over the god, born from the fallen rulers of her world. She knew who he was, though she had never seen Kaos  for herself before.

Her pelt, as dark as the night, shone like silk. Floating like ghosts within a sea of black, were faint stars. So faint, one had to look twice in order to believe that they were indeed there. Her dark mane shone in the light of the flowers. Without the touch of the night, it had reverted back to its normal state along with her tail and feathering. When her gaze had taken in the god and his grim companion, never wavering, she turned to the crowd.

Unlike the others she did not hang back so far. Certainly not as far back as Raein. She doubted that such a distance would stop this being from smiting them all before they could react. The distance would not matter much, if his powers were half as godly as they should be. She gave a nod of greeting to the unfamiliar faces, shooting a friendly smile towards Raein before focusing on Kaos once more. "We have come, as you have asked." She spoke, her silken voice drifting through the silence. "What is it that you seek from those within your realm, Kisamoa?" She gave a small duck of her head as she addressed the god. She had not seen Kiada pledge her loyalty to the bleeding god. Not that it would have had much effect upon her. Even as a native of this land, she did not gaze upon Kisamoa with hate or distain. She refrained from judgement. preferring to let the fruits of one's labors reveal the truth. No she had not come to a verdict about Kaos and how he had come to be. Nor did she lean left or right when it came to his methods. But that did not mean she would disrespect the creature. She was not so brash, or dumb. But she did not pledge loyalty to him either.

talk talk talk talk
Fear not this Night.
You will not go Astray
Though shadoes fall, still the Stars find their way
image credit to Achiha-Azteca.

OOC: K'yarie, getting to the point.
Ruwin the Hopebringer
Currently championing:
He was a terror born from pieces of the slain gods. A slapdash, ragtag being formed by the rift in its attempts to survive. A being that had helped their world swallow another. One might find it rather sad, how this dying world struggled to hand onto life. Some could see it as inspirational. Many saw it as vile. An evil place that festered with disease and corruption. Ruwin cared little about any of it. He had never cared much for the gods, nor the ones who had brought the disease upon this land. They all had reaped their rewards and left everyone else to deal with the mess. Yet here he was, watching the monstrosity born from a hodgepodge of parts and chaos as he stood before a small crowd of curious, maybe even hopeful, onlookers.

Ruwin, like Raein, hung back. Not because he was disconcerted with the being before him. Nothing fazed him. He had been born in this land after all. No. He simply stood back a ways because he had little desire to socialize with others. Least of all the black mare that had appeared from the shadows seconds before he had arrived. Thankfully she had not seen him. Though he doubted that she would put on her usual display around others. Not unless she was trying to toy with someone here. Still, he did not want to be bothered by these equine. That would mean he would have to socialize. That was never a good idea. So he remained where he was among the foliage, not really hidden, but not completely exposed, doing what he did best. Watching.

talk talk talk talk
Hiding below my shadow yet dancing above my fears
I grip sorrow's edge as you crumble to fall at my soul's tears
I have not forgotten you,
but sometimes I cannot help feeling numb
image credit to jason-samfield @

OOC: So short. xD Ruwin is such a creeper as he stands a ways off from everyone else. He be watching you!
Otem the Hopebringer
Currently championing:
Can we go back before the morning took you?
And every dream of you was gone

She recognizes Kiada and Raein and no one else. This lack of recognition seems to drive home the point made to her by Raein not so long ago. She couldn't count on Helovian's to make anything of this place. Couldn't count on them to band together, to carve out a place for themselves in this strange world. Was it possible they had found a way out and just left her here? Or had they just lost themselves in and to the Rift? but no, Otem wouldn't blame their misfortune on the Rift. After her battle with the Magnus Metus her confidence in the Rift had been restored. It was like what the bizarre creature had said, things were better before the darkness.

The last time the autumn-flecked girl had seen Kisamoa, she'd been wailing over the phantasmic reproduction of her mother, slowly being drowned in stone. Her mother had said a final goodbye, before asking Zekle to join her in the afterworld. Zekle, but not her. Swallowing those memories, Otem shuffled to stand more or less by Raein, though closer to Kisamoa than he was standing. They were not friends, not after one simple conversation, but in this crowd of strangers, it made the not-yet-woman feel slightly more grounded in the group, to be near one face she recognized.

Pandora, nestled into Otem's mane, poked her head out and rotated it almost 360 to get a look at all who had come. The owelet's gaze finally settled back upon Kisamoa and the odd assortment of items that now accompanied him. Neither she nor her bonded recalled him wearing a cloak before, or having a sword. "I think .. Isn't that the sword Virgil had? Before mother killed him? How is it here?" She whispered to Pandora, who had hopped forward to sit upon the girls' forehead. Shrugging (and because the owl didn't really have shoulders, it was more of a scrunchy-motion), Pandora nibbled gently on Otem's forelock and waited.

Image Credits

You may always use magic/force on/against Otem.