The Pinnacle
03-28-2018, 07:45 PM
Glitter. Party. Crowd.
This time, he hadn't phased out to get there ahead of them—partially out of fear that his glitter would fall off when he stepped into the other place, and partially out of a strange sense of loyalty. His mind was still burning with thoughts about the Living Trees, digging through centuries of knowledge taken for granted to the point that it was lost, but whatever brain capacity he had left was turning over what had happened in the most recent past.
From the abandoned Akvo City to the Tree trying to flee through the Portal.. and everything in between: he, Kisamoa, and his continued adventures in kindness.
He was so lost in thought, as he brought up the rear of the group heading to the party, that he almost stepped on Ruwin when they stopped. Blinking in surprise, the deity simply shifted his mass sideways, looking all sorts of wrong as he avoided the recalcitrant, glittering stallion.
And that's when things started to get strange.
Music, its source unseen, began to hum through the air, a beat traveling through his skin to his bones, shaking them; his vision clipped between reality and memories of days long since past, when such celebrations had not been rare things. As he peered at the horses breaking off into groups, or slowly slipping into dance, he wondered how long it was since the Rift had seen something like this. The last few hundred years of his memories were a dark blur, full of sickness and greed.
He was in remission, but he wondered how long it would last.
Kisamoa was in many ways a hideous thing: he stood upon four long legs, none quite like the other, his body a mess of scars and black, oily fur. A long tail, that once might've been soft, was strung out behind him, a tangled mess. And from his broad shoulders arched an elegant neck, marred by the scars where fur and scales met; his head, forehead covered in glitter, tapered to a thinner nose than a horse's, and shorter, too. Antlers, wrong-looking and sharp, sprouted from the base of his skull on that day.
Mismatched fangs crowded his mouth.
But there was one thing about him that was always soft: his eyes.
They were as black as the void, but just eyes like any other, with long lashes, and soft, soft fur around them.
He narrowed his eyes, trapped in a conflict between the anger and the child within; a god's voice, probably, yelling in the back of his mind that this was a waste of time, in every way, countered by that weird sense of self that wanted to disappear in the beat of the music, and be carried away by it.
After a moment, he let his awareness sink into the realm around him, touching the golden, glowing veins of hope pulsing through it. They were a trail, easy to follow, mapping the paths that had been taken to bring Hope to the lands; a spiderweb of achievements, an echo of life.
A dream of a brighter future, for that moment shared by all of the land.
Kisamoa remained lost in the bliss of those currents, eyes closed, but his long tail flicked rhythmically to the beat of the music.
This time, he hadn't phased out to get there ahead of them—partially out of fear that his glitter would fall off when he stepped into the other place, and partially out of a strange sense of loyalty. His mind was still burning with thoughts about the Living Trees, digging through centuries of knowledge taken for granted to the point that it was lost, but whatever brain capacity he had left was turning over what had happened in the most recent past.
From the abandoned Akvo City to the Tree trying to flee through the Portal.. and everything in between: he, Kisamoa, and his continued adventures in kindness.
He was so lost in thought, as he brought up the rear of the group heading to the party, that he almost stepped on Ruwin when they stopped. Blinking in surprise, the deity simply shifted his mass sideways, looking all sorts of wrong as he avoided the recalcitrant, glittering stallion.
And that's when things started to get strange.
Music, its source unseen, began to hum through the air, a beat traveling through his skin to his bones, shaking them; his vision clipped between reality and memories of days long since past, when such celebrations had not been rare things. As he peered at the horses breaking off into groups, or slowly slipping into dance, he wondered how long it was since the Rift had seen something like this. The last few hundred years of his memories were a dark blur, full of sickness and greed.
He was in remission, but he wondered how long it would last.
Kisamoa was in many ways a hideous thing: he stood upon four long legs, none quite like the other, his body a mess of scars and black, oily fur. A long tail, that once might've been soft, was strung out behind him, a tangled mess. And from his broad shoulders arched an elegant neck, marred by the scars where fur and scales met; his head, forehead covered in glitter, tapered to a thinner nose than a horse's, and shorter, too. Antlers, wrong-looking and sharp, sprouted from the base of his skull on that day.
Mismatched fangs crowded his mouth.
But there was one thing about him that was always soft: his eyes.
They were as black as the void, but just eyes like any other, with long lashes, and soft, soft fur around them.
He narrowed his eyes, trapped in a conflict between the anger and the child within; a god's voice, probably, yelling in the back of his mind that this was a waste of time, in every way, countered by that weird sense of self that wanted to disappear in the beat of the music, and be carried away by it.
After a moment, he let his awareness sink into the realm around him, touching the golden, glowing veins of hope pulsing through it. They were a trail, easy to follow, mapping the paths that had been taken to bring Hope to the lands; a spiderweb of achievements, an echo of life.
A dream of a brighter future, for that moment shared by all of the land.
Kisamoa remained lost in the bliss of those currents, eyes closed, but his long tail flicked rhythmically to the beat of the music.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
