Hraunor
07-20-2018, 09:48 AM
He hadn't felt well since the return of Hope.
It wasn't a physical malady, but doubts: he had come into this world a God, the Deceiver, the destroyer of worlds. He had come into this world a godkiller, having snuffed out Helovia's pantheon with barely any effort at all.
And for all his arrogance, for all his commands, he had accomplished two things: causing the Rift to discard the Scint River, and awakening Hope.
He wasn't proud of either.
He was lost, a memory set adrift in the future. None of the Gods had any wisdom to offer—they were mostly dead, just wanting to return to their lost lands, somehow not comprehending that their world was dying.
Too blind, too dead. And Kaos didn't trust Ajani, the wise Loricatrunc, anymore.
So he was a child, left to his own devices. He slipped along the border between this world and the next, lurked in the shadows, watched from the stars. New blood trickled in, stolen by the Portal, and yet some found ways to leave.
He didn't know how to move forward. He didn't know how to find the tattered, broken Helovia, and take back what had been stolen. He had tried, oh yes, he had swum through the heavens and the ages, but godless, Helovia drifted ever out of reach, or perhaps the blood soaking through the earth prevented him from finding it.
Kisamoa had rolled over in the liminal space, snug and aching in his nest of moss, debating whether or not the Protector's party was worth the pain of the living world, when he felt it: Hope was stirring. Instantly, his dark eyes snapped open. Jealousy and anger propelled him to his feet, and across the distance.
He slipped from the cover of the other space, today an angular creature upon four scaly limbs, with thick, yet jutting, shoulders and narrow hips. Spiky antlers curved from behind misshapen ears, and his muzzle tapered into a canine-like point, mouth full with mismatched sharp teeth.
"Hope," he rumbled, not bothering to hide his animosity. Her presence stung him with its warmth. Before them, the red, sloping mountains and valleys of the Heart spread out, disappearing somewhere on the horizon. Nearby, Hraunor roiled. Kisamoa felt like grinding his jaws together in frustration, but due to the shape of his teeth, doing so just wasn't practical. He'd been probing the Heart since the North was revealed, but hadn't been able to convince the Rift to lift the shadows.
Instead, his face settled into a mask of canine contempt. "I see you've found the Heart."
It wasn't a physical malady, but doubts: he had come into this world a God, the Deceiver, the destroyer of worlds. He had come into this world a godkiller, having snuffed out Helovia's pantheon with barely any effort at all.
And for all his arrogance, for all his commands, he had accomplished two things: causing the Rift to discard the Scint River, and awakening Hope.
He wasn't proud of either.
He was lost, a memory set adrift in the future. None of the Gods had any wisdom to offer—they were mostly dead, just wanting to return to their lost lands, somehow not comprehending that their world was dying.
Too blind, too dead. And Kaos didn't trust Ajani, the wise Loricatrunc, anymore.
So he was a child, left to his own devices. He slipped along the border between this world and the next, lurked in the shadows, watched from the stars. New blood trickled in, stolen by the Portal, and yet some found ways to leave.
He didn't know how to move forward. He didn't know how to find the tattered, broken Helovia, and take back what had been stolen. He had tried, oh yes, he had swum through the heavens and the ages, but godless, Helovia drifted ever out of reach, or perhaps the blood soaking through the earth prevented him from finding it.
Kisamoa had rolled over in the liminal space, snug and aching in his nest of moss, debating whether or not the Protector's party was worth the pain of the living world, when he felt it: Hope was stirring. Instantly, his dark eyes snapped open. Jealousy and anger propelled him to his feet, and across the distance.
He slipped from the cover of the other space, today an angular creature upon four scaly limbs, with thick, yet jutting, shoulders and narrow hips. Spiky antlers curved from behind misshapen ears, and his muzzle tapered into a canine-like point, mouth full with mismatched sharp teeth.
"Hope," he rumbled, not bothering to hide his animosity. Her presence stung him with its warmth. Before them, the red, sloping mountains and valleys of the Heart spread out, disappearing somewhere on the horizon. Nearby, Hraunor roiled. Kisamoa felt like grinding his jaws together in frustration, but due to the shape of his teeth, doing so just wasn't practical. He'd been probing the Heart since the North was revealed, but hadn't been able to convince the Rift to lift the shadows.
Instead, his face settled into a mask of canine contempt. "I see you've found the Heart."
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
