Uwaritace
05-28-2018, 10:45 AM
If she was surprised, she didn't show it; then again, did he know to look for it? Why would it be out of the ordinary for him to appear out of the rain and dark, a wet shadow in a wet, shadowy world? He was made of these things, though his wetness was usually stickier and smelled of iron and copper and salt and fire.
"She is not of this realm?" Taivas asked, as if surprised; Kisamoa's brows furrowed on his narrow head. Why would she be? Why would anyone assume she was? He blinked, studying the pale horse's face. "Barely anything is," he responded gravely, before turning his slender skull to the mother tree. And it was true: he would almost go so far as to claim that nothing, when traced to its roots, came from the Rift itself, but he had not been there when it all began. His memories were of the void and its singing, of taming and predicting its tricky currents—of anchoring life, and snuffing out the corruption threatening to tear it all asunder.
In many ways, it felt as if Vjanta had been the first—a crystal clear sunrise over bright cerulean brooks, dew-laden grass so green the whole world as it was now seemed drab and gray. Once, she had walked proudly on the lands she'd dreamed up from faraway worlds and shepherded into the fold, but now, she was dead.
Kisamoa blinked. Mostly dead, he amended.
"Is your home lost?" he asked her, slightly curious, but from the direction he was facing, one could easily assume he was talking to the tree.
"She is not of this realm?" Taivas asked, as if surprised; Kisamoa's brows furrowed on his narrow head. Why would she be? Why would anyone assume she was? He blinked, studying the pale horse's face. "Barely anything is," he responded gravely, before turning his slender skull to the mother tree. And it was true: he would almost go so far as to claim that nothing, when traced to its roots, came from the Rift itself, but he had not been there when it all began. His memories were of the void and its singing, of taming and predicting its tricky currents—of anchoring life, and snuffing out the corruption threatening to tear it all asunder.
In many ways, it felt as if Vjanta had been the first—a crystal clear sunrise over bright cerulean brooks, dew-laden grass so green the whole world as it was now seemed drab and gray. Once, she had walked proudly on the lands she'd dreamed up from faraway worlds and shepherded into the fold, but now, she was dead.
Kisamoa blinked. Mostly dead, he amended.
"Is your home lost?" he asked her, slightly curious, but from the direction he was facing, one could easily assume he was talking to the tree.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
