Uwaritace
08-02-2017, 10:19 AM
He wouldn't call it doubts. He wasn't a creature made from doubts, guilt and shame—he was the bastard child of corruption, power and greed, death and lost futures. He was an amalgam of chaos, of, in some ways, pure sin—the fall of something beautiful, all the way up from the once-pristine heavens to the mud-stained floor.
He represented everything that was wrong with this world. He wasn't heartless, but it was stitched together from four different creatures, deities in their own rights, but nothing quite so fancy as gods. In truth, they had been little more than beings, just like any other, but they had possessed an unprecedented strength of character. They had navigated the pure power flows of the Rift, and had embraced it without coming apart into a thousand tiny pieces.
But they hadn't been strong enough. Their minds had turned to darkness, their morals to ashes.
And in the end, they had died, but the devastating powers of the Rift would not be denied. Their bodies, cut into a myriad of pieces, had crawled under Caevoc's cloak, like seeking like. And thus, Kaos had been born.
He had some of their memories, and some of their knowledge. He had all of them inside the shifting shell of his body. He had all their wants and needs and all their fury.
He had his own furies, too. How could he not? In their memories, he had lived their last moments—he had seen what they had seen, had felt them die, and had known that barely anyone had spoken out against the mindless slaughter.
His one priority had been to bring life back to the Rift. He had used cunning and stealth, had made himself a foothold, and had his plans laid out—but he had been too slow. He had kept on feeling the Rift fade. He'd had no other choice.
But that's where the "doubts" came in. He watched them. The powers of Caevoc cloaked him, and allowed him to walk among them. And it was what he saw that made him doubt, that perhaps he had gone about this in the wrong way. They had needed the whip to go through the Portal, and he had few qualms about taking their lives, but now that they were here, he did not need their anger. He didn't need them to fear him.
He needed them to like it here.
He needed them to want to stay.
It was uncomfortable to watch, not because of the rain, but because of the scent of his emotions as he talked, then screamed, at the tree. It was rich and potent and full of desperation and life, and Kisamoa couldn't do anything about it. He could, theoretically, just snuff his life out, and leave nothing but a black stain on Uwaritace's trunk, but it was the direct opposite of his new realizations. Killing Zèklè would endear him to absolutely no one.
The irony of it was that Kisamoa knew Isopia had spoken out against mindlessly murdering one of his ancestors, but he hadn't had any choice in the matter. She had thrown her lot in with the Gods, and they hadn't been strong enough to stop him.
If only they hadn't tried...
Zèklè finally fell to the ground, and laid there. Kisamoa pulled the shroud from himself, and stepped under Her great boughs to the wail of the Mourning Flowers. Rain matted his oily fur, and made the strange lights glisten and bloom over him. He left black prints where he had stepped, not one like the other.
"Zèklè," he said through the rain, a few of his teeth growing too long and making the name come out a little mangled. In spite of it, his voice was as gentle as it could be, when it came from a creature such as he. He paused, as if unsure of what to say. He'd been related to Ampere, hadn't he? "For what it is worth, which I doubt is much, I am sorry," the tall, shadowy thing said, trying his hand at sincerity again.
He wasn't sure how he felt about it, but he had to try.
He represented everything that was wrong with this world. He wasn't heartless, but it was stitched together from four different creatures, deities in their own rights, but nothing quite so fancy as gods. In truth, they had been little more than beings, just like any other, but they had possessed an unprecedented strength of character. They had navigated the pure power flows of the Rift, and had embraced it without coming apart into a thousand tiny pieces.
But they hadn't been strong enough. Their minds had turned to darkness, their morals to ashes.
And in the end, they had died, but the devastating powers of the Rift would not be denied. Their bodies, cut into a myriad of pieces, had crawled under Caevoc's cloak, like seeking like. And thus, Kaos had been born.
He had some of their memories, and some of their knowledge. He had all of them inside the shifting shell of his body. He had all their wants and needs and all their fury.
He had his own furies, too. How could he not? In their memories, he had lived their last moments—he had seen what they had seen, had felt them die, and had known that barely anyone had spoken out against the mindless slaughter.
His one priority had been to bring life back to the Rift. He had used cunning and stealth, had made himself a foothold, and had his plans laid out—but he had been too slow. He had kept on feeling the Rift fade. He'd had no other choice.
But that's where the "doubts" came in. He watched them. The powers of Caevoc cloaked him, and allowed him to walk among them. And it was what he saw that made him doubt, that perhaps he had gone about this in the wrong way. They had needed the whip to go through the Portal, and he had few qualms about taking their lives, but now that they were here, he did not need their anger. He didn't need them to fear him.
He needed them to like it here.
He needed them to want to stay.
It was uncomfortable to watch, not because of the rain, but because of the scent of his emotions as he talked, then screamed, at the tree. It was rich and potent and full of desperation and life, and Kisamoa couldn't do anything about it. He could, theoretically, just snuff his life out, and leave nothing but a black stain on Uwaritace's trunk, but it was the direct opposite of his new realizations. Killing Zèklè would endear him to absolutely no one.
The irony of it was that Kisamoa knew Isopia had spoken out against mindlessly murdering one of his ancestors, but he hadn't had any choice in the matter. She had thrown her lot in with the Gods, and they hadn't been strong enough to stop him.
If only they hadn't tried...
Zèklè finally fell to the ground, and laid there. Kisamoa pulled the shroud from himself, and stepped under Her great boughs to the wail of the Mourning Flowers. Rain matted his oily fur, and made the strange lights glisten and bloom over him. He left black prints where he had stepped, not one like the other.
"Zèklè," he said through the rain, a few of his teeth growing too long and making the name come out a little mangled. In spite of it, his voice was as gentle as it could be, when it came from a creature such as he. He paused, as if unsure of what to say. He'd been related to Ampere, hadn't he? "For what it is worth, which I doubt is much, I am sorry," the tall, shadowy thing said, trying his hand at sincerity again.
He wasn't sure how he felt about it, but he had to try.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
