Halyven
04-22-2018, 10:28 AM
The ivory mare from the river slips onto the scene—standoffish, every angle of her body screaming that she isn't one of them, her cold, haunting eyes landing only on Kiada. It's like she can't even see the rest of you. Baffled, one of your ears turn back, and you glance at Rixen's face. He seems alright with this, offering the girl a polite greeting. You wish you had the guts to do the same, but you decide that he speaks for you, too, when he greets her.
Kiada gives you her name: Valkyrie. A cold and hard name. It suits her, because she seems cold and hard. Dangerous, in some way, as if she might sting to touch; not dangerous in the way you imagine the sleek stranger to be. Sometimes, you think you see a knife hidden beneath the elegance.
She goes on to speak of why she's called you all, sharing a plant she's found. Intrigued, you step closer, lowering your head to peer closely at the mossy thing. It's unlike what was readily available in your home, vaguely reminiscent of the moss growing in the Wailers' mountains. One of your ears turn back, listening to Roscorro's arrival and tale of gruesome monsters; you shiver a little, looking up in time to see K'yarie come into existence somewhere behind Kiada. She nods at you, and you return it with a slight smile, pleased to see her again—but somehow, it withers and dies on your lips when you watch her touch Valkyrie's wings with fondness.
You dig another grave for that thought, out of necessity. Hope—elegant, bright, everything the Rift seems to need—materializes. She takes action where none of you have dared before. You remember the talk of deities, of patron Gods in the lost Helovia; is she your patron god? You study her with interest and a veil behind your gaze, as if there's something you want to hide from her burning eyes. She is not Kisamoa, the fractured monster you're so inexplicably fond of, and you're afraid she might sense your disappointment.
Is everything in this blasted place out to hurt you?
The sickly filly presses against Roscorro as Hope reveals her leaders of choice: Roscorro, and Rixen. They both look equally stunned, but you don't find yourself terribly surprised. Roscorro is a bulwark, his heart good; Rixen is noble, diligent. You think they'll be good, despite their doubts, and you plan on saying as much when your heart fractures further.
A hiss, the words of which you do not catch, originates from somewhere by Valkyrie and K'yarie—they're still painful to look at, and anger radiates from every pore on the icy girl. She turns to leave, a crack in your heart; you don't know her, but she's leaving, and she's not supposed to.
She's not supposed to.
Behind you, you feel the sleek, black stranger slip away. Quiet, quiet; you spin around, surprised at how far he's come, even as K'yarie makes excuses for Valkyrie and takes her leave.
You cry out, "Wait!", trotting out into the pouring rain, but he's already gone.
Like a shadow swallowed by the night.
Slowly, you turn your head to look at K'yarie's retreating form; bitterness and resentment welling up inside of you, a flimsy shield against the hurt. So easily has she replaced you with another broken thing—and your mind clouds as you think of the excuse offered. "I am all she has."
No, your numb heart says, darkly, she had all of us.
But like the sleek stranger, she discarded you. It presses on your ribs, from the outside, from the inside, your breath getting stuck in your throat as you stand there in the rain, a wet, lonely figure. It hides your tired tears, grounds you in your skin; beneath it, you buzz with confusion.
"It wasn't supposed to go like this," you say, to the rain, to no one in particular.
Kiada gives you her name: Valkyrie. A cold and hard name. It suits her, because she seems cold and hard. Dangerous, in some way, as if she might sting to touch; not dangerous in the way you imagine the sleek stranger to be. Sometimes, you think you see a knife hidden beneath the elegance.
She goes on to speak of why she's called you all, sharing a plant she's found. Intrigued, you step closer, lowering your head to peer closely at the mossy thing. It's unlike what was readily available in your home, vaguely reminiscent of the moss growing in the Wailers' mountains. One of your ears turn back, listening to Roscorro's arrival and tale of gruesome monsters; you shiver a little, looking up in time to see K'yarie come into existence somewhere behind Kiada. She nods at you, and you return it with a slight smile, pleased to see her again—but somehow, it withers and dies on your lips when you watch her touch Valkyrie's wings with fondness.
You dig another grave for that thought, out of necessity. Hope—elegant, bright, everything the Rift seems to need—materializes. She takes action where none of you have dared before. You remember the talk of deities, of patron Gods in the lost Helovia; is she your patron god? You study her with interest and a veil behind your gaze, as if there's something you want to hide from her burning eyes. She is not Kisamoa, the fractured monster you're so inexplicably fond of, and you're afraid she might sense your disappointment.
Is everything in this blasted place out to hurt you?
The sickly filly presses against Roscorro as Hope reveals her leaders of choice: Roscorro, and Rixen. They both look equally stunned, but you don't find yourself terribly surprised. Roscorro is a bulwark, his heart good; Rixen is noble, diligent. You think they'll be good, despite their doubts, and you plan on saying as much when your heart fractures further.
A hiss, the words of which you do not catch, originates from somewhere by Valkyrie and K'yarie—they're still painful to look at, and anger radiates from every pore on the icy girl. She turns to leave, a crack in your heart; you don't know her, but she's leaving, and she's not supposed to.
She's not supposed to.
Behind you, you feel the sleek, black stranger slip away. Quiet, quiet; you spin around, surprised at how far he's come, even as K'yarie makes excuses for Valkyrie and takes her leave.
You cry out, "Wait!", trotting out into the pouring rain, but he's already gone.
Like a shadow swallowed by the night.
Slowly, you turn your head to look at K'yarie's retreating form; bitterness and resentment welling up inside of you, a flimsy shield against the hurt. So easily has she replaced you with another broken thing—and your mind clouds as you think of the excuse offered. "I am all she has."
No, your numb heart says, darkly, she had all of us.
But like the sleek stranger, she discarded you. It presses on your ribs, from the outside, from the inside, your breath getting stuck in your throat as you stand there in the rain, a wet, lonely figure. It hides your tired tears, grounds you in your skin; beneath it, you buzz with confusion.
"It wasn't supposed to go like this," you say, to the rain, to no one in particular.
