Uwaritace
08-04-2017, 11:11 AM
He actually began to doubt.
But only for a moment.
He thought that, maybe, he shouldn't have come here. Maybe, he shouldn't have pulled the cloak from his shoulders, and tried to console someone he was woefully ill-equipped to console. Maybe, he should've laughed instead, and just hammered their idea of him—his idea of himself—deeper. Kisamoa, and his reign of terror in the Rift. Kisamoa, the one who enslaved Helovians into the service of another realm. Kisamoa, the one who killed their loved ones and didn't even give a damn.
He'd laughed and sung as he killed their Gods, hadn't he?
He'd come here because he'd wanted to learn. He'd come here because he'd wanted to fix it, this thing he broke, and this thing he hated seeing broken.
He hadn't come to have the consequences of his actions thrown in his face, and have it actually hurt.
Which is to say—either he had not understood what he had done, or he had chosen not to. Whichever it was was both pointless to know, and to speculate on, because the fact remained: this had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, barely even a plan, just a stirring of something inside, and it had just happened to align with what his analytical mind told him.
Oh, and a lack of impulse control.
He was a fifth mind shoved in between four spirits, a child in a body he did not own, a single consciousness with clarity contending with four dead, clouded ones. His entire world was built around what he had known upon being created. He didn't go so far as to regret, though. He didn't go so far as to doubt. That, would've been to go too far, too soon.
So what did he do, to the broken thing he was, clumsily, trying to stitch back together, pieces of a ripped paper in paws and claws that weren't meant to fix anything, only destroy? He couldn't even find the tape, so what did he have? Nothing. Nothing. Zèklè burst out into laughter that even Kisamoa knew was wrong.
He was Kisamoa—he was Kaos. He was the abomination child of four dead deities. He could consume worlds, rip the fabrics of space and time, and kill with barely more than a thought.
And he had never felt more helpless.
In his customary silence he met Zèklè's eyes. He blinked, on occasion, his eyelids maybe the only things on his body that looked soft—long lashes, downy fur. Teal veins threaded his irises, and on his monstrous face, emotion was hard to read. What did his lowered head, drooping ears, sagging shoulders mean? What was his tail, hanging limp along a hind leg, saying?
How do you know with a monster? He swallowed, the motion lost in the constant shifting of his body, as if the Gods he was made of couldn't quite decide who got what part, and kept pulling other things into the mix. He was afraid of what he might find if he looked at himself—all those he had killed, had he somehow absorbed them, and was that why his body couldn't quite keep still?
The request was made. It was the two things he had hoped the least for, but suspected the most; he did not look away, for he felt he owed the horse that much. "Ah," said the one who had died four times. Slowly, he shifted his weight from side to side, swaying a little. How do you, gently, say, I could, but you might not like it, or, Isopia is a thing I cannot touch, her essence something not under my jurisdiction, or, I can't mend things you motherfucker, or, fuck them, they made their choices, or—it's a tide of rage, but it's not his, precisely. It's the rage of those killed.
They keep saying the score isn't settled, that it's not in balance yet, but shouldn't your world being saved be enough?
(It's not enough it can never be enough they were not enough because their Gods protected them it's not a permanent fix you failed—)
He was still only Kisamoa, the Destroyer. The Deceiver. "You made your request," he finally said, his voice heavier, somehow. He didn't want to deny him. He didn't want to tell him to ask for something else, anything else—he didn't want to extend his hand only to snatch it away because it burned when it touched him. Thunder rolled, and Kisamoa's skin with it. So many things were on his tongue, on his mind—would you all have come, if I had asked? Would your Gods have let you go, if I had asked? Would you have helped save my world, if I had asked?
The world they had destroyed with barely any second thoughts, except for Isopia. The Mountain That Knows. Had she known this would come?
His experiences with saving worlds was limited. The Riftians had cried out for help, and the Helovian Gods had answered with deicide and theft. Was it, then, so strange that he followed in their steps?
"I..." the great beast began, then fell silent. I don't want to promise anything sounded too much like I'll forget about it tomorrow. He closed his eyes. "I will do what I can," he finally said, his voice heavy like the mountains themselves, "but death.. It's... I don't—I can't recommend coming back from it."
It was pounding in his head. It was too much. This wasn't what he had wanted. He hadn't wanted to come here and absolutely lose his hold because, he hadn't even known there was something he was holding on to? But he'd found it, in the folds of vengeance and hunger, a space in the body and between the souls—one that was his.
He needed something to bury it in.
"I'm so, so sorry," the creature whispered, his mouth and face having shaped into something soft, something almost recognizable. He sounded broken.
He felt broken. Kisamoa pulled the cloak of shadows over him again, disappeared, and fled.
Left behind in the rain and the song of the flowers, Zèklè's metal wing starts to glow, and the other spits a few sparks. It's unclear whether it's something he did, or something the Rift did.
[ Congratulations Zèklè! ]
VANITY MAGIC: Lightning markings on his back and wing crackle with harmless sparks
VANITY MAGIC: The metal parts on his body glows when wet
@Zèklè
But only for a moment.
He thought that, maybe, he shouldn't have come here. Maybe, he shouldn't have pulled the cloak from his shoulders, and tried to console someone he was woefully ill-equipped to console. Maybe, he should've laughed instead, and just hammered their idea of him—his idea of himself—deeper. Kisamoa, and his reign of terror in the Rift. Kisamoa, the one who enslaved Helovians into the service of another realm. Kisamoa, the one who killed their loved ones and didn't even give a damn.
He'd laughed and sung as he killed their Gods, hadn't he?
He'd come here because he'd wanted to learn. He'd come here because he'd wanted to fix it, this thing he broke, and this thing he hated seeing broken.
He hadn't come to have the consequences of his actions thrown in his face, and have it actually hurt.
Which is to say—either he had not understood what he had done, or he had chosen not to. Whichever it was was both pointless to know, and to speculate on, because the fact remained: this had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, barely even a plan, just a stirring of something inside, and it had just happened to align with what his analytical mind told him.
Oh, and a lack of impulse control.
He was a fifth mind shoved in between four spirits, a child in a body he did not own, a single consciousness with clarity contending with four dead, clouded ones. His entire world was built around what he had known upon being created. He didn't go so far as to regret, though. He didn't go so far as to doubt. That, would've been to go too far, too soon.
So what did he do, to the broken thing he was, clumsily, trying to stitch back together, pieces of a ripped paper in paws and claws that weren't meant to fix anything, only destroy? He couldn't even find the tape, so what did he have? Nothing. Nothing. Zèklè burst out into laughter that even Kisamoa knew was wrong.
He was Kisamoa—he was Kaos. He was the abomination child of four dead deities. He could consume worlds, rip the fabrics of space and time, and kill with barely more than a thought.
And he had never felt more helpless.
In his customary silence he met Zèklè's eyes. He blinked, on occasion, his eyelids maybe the only things on his body that looked soft—long lashes, downy fur. Teal veins threaded his irises, and on his monstrous face, emotion was hard to read. What did his lowered head, drooping ears, sagging shoulders mean? What was his tail, hanging limp along a hind leg, saying?
How do you know with a monster? He swallowed, the motion lost in the constant shifting of his body, as if the Gods he was made of couldn't quite decide who got what part, and kept pulling other things into the mix. He was afraid of what he might find if he looked at himself—all those he had killed, had he somehow absorbed them, and was that why his body couldn't quite keep still?
The request was made. It was the two things he had hoped the least for, but suspected the most; he did not look away, for he felt he owed the horse that much. "Ah," said the one who had died four times. Slowly, he shifted his weight from side to side, swaying a little. How do you, gently, say, I could, but you might not like it, or, Isopia is a thing I cannot touch, her essence something not under my jurisdiction, or, I can't mend things you motherfucker, or, fuck them, they made their choices, or—it's a tide of rage, but it's not his, precisely. It's the rage of those killed.
They keep saying the score isn't settled, that it's not in balance yet, but shouldn't your world being saved be enough?
(It's not enough it can never be enough they were not enough because their Gods protected them it's not a permanent fix you failed—)
He was still only Kisamoa, the Destroyer. The Deceiver. "You made your request," he finally said, his voice heavier, somehow. He didn't want to deny him. He didn't want to tell him to ask for something else, anything else—he didn't want to extend his hand only to snatch it away because it burned when it touched him. Thunder rolled, and Kisamoa's skin with it. So many things were on his tongue, on his mind—would you all have come, if I had asked? Would your Gods have let you go, if I had asked? Would you have helped save my world, if I had asked?
The world they had destroyed with barely any second thoughts, except for Isopia. The Mountain That Knows. Had she known this would come?
His experiences with saving worlds was limited. The Riftians had cried out for help, and the Helovian Gods had answered with deicide and theft. Was it, then, so strange that he followed in their steps?
"I..." the great beast began, then fell silent. I don't want to promise anything sounded too much like I'll forget about it tomorrow. He closed his eyes. "I will do what I can," he finally said, his voice heavy like the mountains themselves, "but death.. It's... I don't—I can't recommend coming back from it."
It was pounding in his head. It was too much. This wasn't what he had wanted. He hadn't wanted to come here and absolutely lose his hold because, he hadn't even known there was something he was holding on to? But he'd found it, in the folds of vengeance and hunger, a space in the body and between the souls—one that was his.
He needed something to bury it in.
"I'm so, so sorry," the creature whispered, his mouth and face having shaped into something soft, something almost recognizable. He sounded broken.
He felt broken. Kisamoa pulled the cloak of shadows over him again, disappeared, and fled.
Left behind in the rain and the song of the flowers, Zèklè's metal wing starts to glow, and the other spits a few sparks. It's unclear whether it's something he did, or something the Rift did.
[ Congratulations Zèklè! ]
VANITY MAGIC: Lightning markings on his back and wing crackle with harmless sparks
VANITY MAGIC: The metal parts on his body glows when wet
@Zèklè
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
