The Portal
02-27-2018, 02:36 PM
He took his time, following in the wake of the bay, lightning-marked filly. She was a lanky thing, a little older than the pale colt who had rushed ahead, and, unless his memory failed him, a Helovian. Not that it mattered anymore: Helovia was a godless realm, and she was here. Kisamoa heaved a sigh. The girl was just beyond the horizon, and there was more than simple consideration for her heart rate that kept him out of sight.
He was in pain.
That wasn't news; his mouth was bleeding, his back was bleeding, and depending on where he stepped, his feet hurt to varying degrees. The constant shifting of his body took its toll.
It was a strange realization, honestly. Most of the time he walked among the living only to demand something, or, in one case, give them hope, and then he would retreat back to the liminal place between worlds. What he did there was a mystery, but likely he brooded or simply laid down.
Now he had been on his feet for hours, moving in a place where his physical body mattered more, and it hurt more than he had expected it would.
When he finally came upon the gathering—walking with grace, as if untroubled by his groaning nerves—the girl he'd been following was looking embarrassed, the mare from Akvo looked at Watcher, next to whom the pale colt was sort of crouched. The latter walked off, though, without a word, and Kisamoa took his eyes off the group to sweep his gaze across the Portal area.
How could something be both so ugly and so beautiful at the same time? It was a raw wound, a rip in the world, a tear between dimensions and realities; he had ripped open the fabric of reality and what he had achieved with the power of the dead gods.. it nearly made him shiver. It was a place that did not bleed like the stolen hearts, but rather, a place that devoured. It ate souls and spat them back out here.
He was in pain.
That wasn't news; his mouth was bleeding, his back was bleeding, and depending on where he stepped, his feet hurt to varying degrees. The constant shifting of his body took its toll.
It was a strange realization, honestly. Most of the time he walked among the living only to demand something, or, in one case, give them hope, and then he would retreat back to the liminal place between worlds. What he did there was a mystery, but likely he brooded or simply laid down.
Now he had been on his feet for hours, moving in a place where his physical body mattered more, and it hurt more than he had expected it would.
When he finally came upon the gathering—walking with grace, as if untroubled by his groaning nerves—the girl he'd been following was looking embarrassed, the mare from Akvo looked at Watcher, next to whom the pale colt was sort of crouched. The latter walked off, though, without a word, and Kisamoa took his eyes off the group to sweep his gaze across the Portal area.
How could something be both so ugly and so beautiful at the same time? It was a raw wound, a rip in the world, a tear between dimensions and realities; he had ripped open the fabric of reality and what he had achieved with the power of the dead gods.. it nearly made him shiver. It was a place that did not bleed like the stolen hearts, but rather, a place that devoured. It ate souls and spat them back out here.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
