Uwaritace
Taivas
She was startled.
Outwardly, though, the shaman turns an almost lazy face toward the God of Chaos. The scent of burning flesh and coagulated blood announced his presence to her subconsciously, but with her focus tuned toward the mother, she had missed his arrival completely until his voice spilled into the air.
It takes nought but the briefest of glances to determine who had arrived. The disfigured creature seemed smaller, standing side-by-side, than he had the few times Taivas had seen him. The water stuck to his figure, making him appear like the mangled corpse of a massive dog left on the side of a rainy path. Deep in the recesses of his face, she finds a surprise.
Much like the gentle tones of his voice as her speaks on the once glorious tree, there is a softness in his eyes.
They are like deep, dark pools, much like Taivas's own. They lack the glimmer of hidden stars, but the sentiment buried within mirrors her own. A mournful sadness and respect for the ghost of Uwaritace.
"She is not of this realm?" the shaman asks, with the vaguest hint of surprise in her voice. Perhaps adding to her surprise was the fact that he did not know where she came from. She suspected that Kisamoa would know mostly everything about this land. Weren't gods supposed to be omnipotent beings? The Fields had no gods - only the spirits. Therefore, her knowledge on the immortal creators and deities was shallow at best. She had long imagined massive behemoths wielding incredible magic, and Kisamoa did not live up to those expectations.
Looking at him now, with his figure so close to her own tiny frame, his face stretched impossibly thin, his mangled limbs - he does not look to be a god. However, she knows that he holds powers she cannot understand. He brought hope back to their realm, did he not? He could pass between the barriers. He could move pieces of this world. She could never be certain what he was capable of exactly.
She takes a pause, looking back at the burned remains of the lifeline of some other land. "That is why she is so out of place here," the shaman sagely whispers to herself, repeating the observation she had made on her first visit to the great tree. The giant mother tree did not match her surroundings, neither in shape or size. Taivas had simply assumed before that the original forest had burned and had been reborn from the ashes, much like the Guardians of the Wood spoke much upon.
"I suppose her home is lost, as well."
Her voice is flat, betraying none of the sorrow residing behind her dark eyes. Without the mother tree, the forest she had birthed likely faded from memory. Like a misfit drawn into this realm, Uwaritace mimicked many of the Rift's inhabitants. Their original home ceased to exist, and they were left to wander as ghosts of their former selves.
Rebuilding a life is a terribly difficult process.
Outwardly, though, the shaman turns an almost lazy face toward the God of Chaos. The scent of burning flesh and coagulated blood announced his presence to her subconsciously, but with her focus tuned toward the mother, she had missed his arrival completely until his voice spilled into the air.
It takes nought but the briefest of glances to determine who had arrived. The disfigured creature seemed smaller, standing side-by-side, than he had the few times Taivas had seen him. The water stuck to his figure, making him appear like the mangled corpse of a massive dog left on the side of a rainy path. Deep in the recesses of his face, she finds a surprise.
Much like the gentle tones of his voice as her speaks on the once glorious tree, there is a softness in his eyes.
They are like deep, dark pools, much like Taivas's own. They lack the glimmer of hidden stars, but the sentiment buried within mirrors her own. A mournful sadness and respect for the ghost of Uwaritace.
"She is not of this realm?" the shaman asks, with the vaguest hint of surprise in her voice. Perhaps adding to her surprise was the fact that he did not know where she came from. She suspected that Kisamoa would know mostly everything about this land. Weren't gods supposed to be omnipotent beings? The Fields had no gods - only the spirits. Therefore, her knowledge on the immortal creators and deities was shallow at best. She had long imagined massive behemoths wielding incredible magic, and Kisamoa did not live up to those expectations.
Looking at him now, with his figure so close to her own tiny frame, his face stretched impossibly thin, his mangled limbs - he does not look to be a god. However, she knows that he holds powers she cannot understand. He brought hope back to their realm, did he not? He could pass between the barriers. He could move pieces of this world. She could never be certain what he was capable of exactly.
She takes a pause, looking back at the burned remains of the lifeline of some other land. "That is why she is so out of place here," the shaman sagely whispers to herself, repeating the observation she had made on her first visit to the great tree. The giant mother tree did not match her surroundings, neither in shape or size. Taivas had simply assumed before that the original forest had burned and had been reborn from the ashes, much like the Guardians of the Wood spoke much upon.
"I suppose her home is lost, as well."
Her voice is flat, betraying none of the sorrow residing behind her dark eyes. Without the mother tree, the forest she had birthed likely faded from memory. Like a misfit drawn into this realm, Uwaritace mimicked many of the Rift's inhabitants. Their original home ceased to exist, and they were left to wander as ghosts of their former selves.
Rebuilding a life is a terribly difficult process.
moon dust in your lungs
stars in your eyes
you are a child of the cosmos,
a ruler of the skies
stars in your eyes
you are a child of the cosmos,
a ruler of the skies
