Uwaritace
05-05-2018, 03:55 PM
Kaos was a wet shadow in the rain.
They were far from the scorching flowers of Solanis, beyond the swirling mist of the desolate Labyrinth; Uwaritace stood alone in her corner of the Rift. Vaguely he remembered her arrival in the Rift, a hazy memory of smoke and fire. The death spasms of a diseased mind tearing it from the inferno of another place, but whether it was for the scent of burning power or out of an altruistic attempt to save the tree, Kisamoa didn't know, and Reszo didn't remember.
Now, they just had the tree. The fires licking up her massive trunk were long since put out, the smoke cleared. She was a dead thing refusing to give up on life.
She was a ghost, haunting any who came near, her name a sigh and a mournful chorus from the mourning flowers. They sang their dirges and elegies, as eerie as they were beautiful.
Kisamoa did not often come here. It was a sad and haunting place, and half the time, he even forgot it was there. No; masochistically, he preferred the scorching flowers of Solanis, burning his fetlocks as he stepped through the radiant carpet, blistering his sensitive skin.
And yet, he found himself by the slaughtered mother tree, gazing pensively at her from the shadows. He was not alone in this: Taivas stood before the tree as well. He found himself wondering what passed behind her starry eyes.
Slowly, the shadowbeast moved, as if it would pain him to move faster, or perhaps the world would simply not accommodate his body if he did. At that moment, he seemed only a little taller than her, as if his body shifted its size depending on the present company. His dark eyes—the only thing that was ever soft about Kaos—tilted down on hers from a face that was too narrow to be a horse's. "I wonder where she came from," he simply said.
They were far from the scorching flowers of Solanis, beyond the swirling mist of the desolate Labyrinth; Uwaritace stood alone in her corner of the Rift. Vaguely he remembered her arrival in the Rift, a hazy memory of smoke and fire. The death spasms of a diseased mind tearing it from the inferno of another place, but whether it was for the scent of burning power or out of an altruistic attempt to save the tree, Kisamoa didn't know, and Reszo didn't remember.
Now, they just had the tree. The fires licking up her massive trunk were long since put out, the smoke cleared. She was a dead thing refusing to give up on life.
She was a ghost, haunting any who came near, her name a sigh and a mournful chorus from the mourning flowers. They sang their dirges and elegies, as eerie as they were beautiful.
Kisamoa did not often come here. It was a sad and haunting place, and half the time, he even forgot it was there. No; masochistically, he preferred the scorching flowers of Solanis, burning his fetlocks as he stepped through the radiant carpet, blistering his sensitive skin.
And yet, he found himself by the slaughtered mother tree, gazing pensively at her from the shadows. He was not alone in this: Taivas stood before the tree as well. He found himself wondering what passed behind her starry eyes.
Slowly, the shadowbeast moved, as if it would pain him to move faster, or perhaps the world would simply not accommodate his body if he did. At that moment, he seemed only a little taller than her, as if his body shifted its size depending on the present company. His dark eyes—the only thing that was ever soft about Kaos—tilted down on hers from a face that was too narrow to be a horse's. "I wonder where she came from," he simply said.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
