Blood Falls
08-01-2018, 08:04 PM
like breaking diamonds with your hands
"Come!" Okay.
"The Rift is dying!" Okay.
"We'll revive some Gods!" Okay.
"Pick one to follow!" Now hold up—
Mauja had stood with them, a lamb in the flock, listening to these news, delivered by someone who definitely wasn't Kaos. The last time Mauja had been among his own people in this bloody realm, it had been the shifting, hideous creature that had done the announcements, and ordering. Now, it was some.. burning gender-nonconforming doe (as former Queen of the World's Edge, Mauja approved). She was definitely not Kaos, and Mauja had looked around a little—the most interest he'd displayed in months—but hadn't seen neither hide nor hair of the Deceiver.
Well, whatever. They had all taken from him, and from his loved ones, and having names to put on their faces did little to alleviate that hurt.
So, he departed the gathering, in silence. Diego rode on his withers, as usual, as they made the trek towards the north again.
Kisamoa had, in those last, fervent moments of Helovia's existence, taken Ophelia from him—though in many ways, she had been taken from him earlier. His own inability to face her after leaving had pushed a wedge in between them, and then she'd met Torleik, anyway.
But now she was dead. Dead. It was so difficult to understand, sometimes.
Vourib, he had nearly killed Irma, when—who was it, good ol' Sparkplug?—had wrenched the Blood Falls into Helovia. The bear hadn't been a pretty sight, and it was only the shockwave nearly taking the life of his owl that had turned Mauja against him.
Then the Moon had taken the Green Labyrinth, and Reszo had killed Aviya.
Sun had stolen the Halcyon Flats, and the crocodile.. had probably killed someone. Erthë's mother? Or was that just when Erthë broke her leg? He frowned.
And, last but not least, Earth had taken the Riptide Isles, and Vjanta had killed Snö.
Mauja climbed the foothills in silence, something growing in his heart.
Pick a motherfucking God, from these alternatives, sans Kisamoa, of course. Was that deer kidding him? What if reviving them just set them down the same path the Gods had been on before: greed and destruction? Benevolent Gods. He found the idea of it an oxymoron.
Mauja stopped halfway to nowhere, his thin sides heaving, sweat darkening his thick-furred flanks. Ribs and hips poked out. His neck had lost its regal arch. He felt every year, and every death, and it didn't feel good.
He heaved a sigh, and kept on moving, dodging the spittle of mud pots, and keeping a wary ear and eye out for avalanches. Hadn't he been thinking for years about not being so damn bitter? About not holding on to everything that had been, because at this point, it was just a bit too much to carry? He was never going to be five years old again, full of life and grandiose, misguided ideas. He was never again going to feel the thrill of recruiting Psyche into his plans, or the confusion upon meeting Ophelia—he was never again going to sneak his way into the good graces of the Sinbird in the Dragon's Throat, about to dupe an entire herd (until Kri would've found him out and slit his throat, anyway).
Besides, as someone who had developed a peculiar affinity for justice and rationality, hating the Gods for defending themselves against a horde of bloodthirsty horses was absurd.
So..?
He heaved himself up another ledge, something strange and familiar pricking at his mind, but he couldn't place it, because it was the last damn thing he was expecting.
Vourib. Caevoc. Vjanta. Reszo. He glanced at the sky, the deepening night, the red sunset disappearing in the west. He glanced at the first traces of stars and northern lights beyond the mountain's jutting back. He thought about the Heimasborg, his childhood home. He thought about Sarazheha, wondering wherever his poor brother had gotten to.
He had felt for the bear, before it threw his owl into the ground.
And it seemed he had ruled over the north, in times past.
He could live with that. He felt something slide to place in his soul more firmly, and as he peered out over the red mountains, he thought grimly to himself: the bear in the motherfucking north.
Yeah. He'd do this thing for Vourib.
[ Open for anyone! Soon there will be owls galore. ]
"The Rift is dying!" Okay.
"We'll revive some Gods!" Okay.
"Pick one to follow!" Now hold up—
Mauja had stood with them, a lamb in the flock, listening to these news, delivered by someone who definitely wasn't Kaos. The last time Mauja had been among his own people in this bloody realm, it had been the shifting, hideous creature that had done the announcements, and ordering. Now, it was some.. burning gender-nonconforming doe (as former Queen of the World's Edge, Mauja approved). She was definitely not Kaos, and Mauja had looked around a little—the most interest he'd displayed in months—but hadn't seen neither hide nor hair of the Deceiver.
Well, whatever. They had all taken from him, and from his loved ones, and having names to put on their faces did little to alleviate that hurt.
So, he departed the gathering, in silence. Diego rode on his withers, as usual, as they made the trek towards the north again.
Kisamoa had, in those last, fervent moments of Helovia's existence, taken Ophelia from him—though in many ways, she had been taken from him earlier. His own inability to face her after leaving had pushed a wedge in between them, and then she'd met Torleik, anyway.
But now she was dead. Dead. It was so difficult to understand, sometimes.
Vourib, he had nearly killed Irma, when—who was it, good ol' Sparkplug?—had wrenched the Blood Falls into Helovia. The bear hadn't been a pretty sight, and it was only the shockwave nearly taking the life of his owl that had turned Mauja against him.
Then the Moon had taken the Green Labyrinth, and Reszo had killed Aviya.
Sun had stolen the Halcyon Flats, and the crocodile.. had probably killed someone. Erthë's mother? Or was that just when Erthë broke her leg? He frowned.
And, last but not least, Earth had taken the Riptide Isles, and Vjanta had killed Snö.
Mauja climbed the foothills in silence, something growing in his heart.
Pick a motherfucking God, from these alternatives, sans Kisamoa, of course. Was that deer kidding him? What if reviving them just set them down the same path the Gods had been on before: greed and destruction? Benevolent Gods. He found the idea of it an oxymoron.
Mauja stopped halfway to nowhere, his thin sides heaving, sweat darkening his thick-furred flanks. Ribs and hips poked out. His neck had lost its regal arch. He felt every year, and every death, and it didn't feel good.
He heaved a sigh, and kept on moving, dodging the spittle of mud pots, and keeping a wary ear and eye out for avalanches. Hadn't he been thinking for years about not being so damn bitter? About not holding on to everything that had been, because at this point, it was just a bit too much to carry? He was never going to be five years old again, full of life and grandiose, misguided ideas. He was never again going to feel the thrill of recruiting Psyche into his plans, or the confusion upon meeting Ophelia—he was never again going to sneak his way into the good graces of the Sinbird in the Dragon's Throat, about to dupe an entire herd (until Kri would've found him out and slit his throat, anyway).
Besides, as someone who had developed a peculiar affinity for justice and rationality, hating the Gods for defending themselves against a horde of bloodthirsty horses was absurd.
So..?
He heaved himself up another ledge, something strange and familiar pricking at his mind, but he couldn't place it, because it was the last damn thing he was expecting.
Vourib. Caevoc. Vjanta. Reszo. He glanced at the sky, the deepening night, the red sunset disappearing in the west. He glanced at the first traces of stars and northern lights beyond the mountain's jutting back. He thought about the Heimasborg, his childhood home. He thought about Sarazheha, wondering wherever his poor brother had gotten to.
He had felt for the bear, before it threw his owl into the ground.
And it seemed he had ruled over the north, in times past.
He could live with that. He felt something slide to place in his soul more firmly, and as he peered out over the red mountains, he thought grimly to himself: the bear in the motherfucking north.
Yeah. He'd do this thing for Vourib.
[ Open for anyone! Soon there will be owls galore. ]
