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Home » Search » Roster » Whitepages » Records » Guidebook

the lonely are such delicate things.
Open Uwaritace 
Taivas the Hopebringer
#1
Taivas
Wearied from the travels across the land immersed in the silence, Taivas returns to the place she held in the highest esteem.

Her eyes reflect the burned surface of the massive tree, amid the glitter of starlight in the glossy pools.  The bark remains dry and lifeless, yet the presence of the mother tree is still massive.  Her name whispers through the air, the indomitable spirit floating about in the ether surrounding the once great tree.  Taivas remembers the teachings of the wood dwellers, how they explained each tree held its own spirit.  However, Uwaritace stuck in her mind as something much more.

A lifeline in the middle of the forest, despite being little more than a charred shell of her former self.  The long dead pulse of the tree still echoed in the air, as if it had been just moments ago the tree passed from its vibrant and lively form into this ghost.  The lost soul of the great mother tree reached out to all who passed by her massive figure, attempting to draw their attention toward her still.

Ah, and what a sight she still was.

Despite the ugly scars a bright flame's tongue left behind, the enormous tree still had a majestic and wondrous appearance.  The absolutely baffling size of the great tree, her branches large as some of the trees below.  Her leaves might even have been as large as Taivas herself.  The ancient and beautiful surface of the damaged back gleaming in the rain.  Closing her eyes, the shaman thinks on how the Matriarch had created the illusion of her being healthy.  The massive leaves upon noble limbs.  The warm glow of her bark.  The gentle sway of her form in the wind.  The sweet scent of spring enveloping the whole area in spite of being surrounded by snow.  The twinkling of lights and baubles upon her branches.

She smiles.

How she would love to see the tree truly restored to her former glory.  For, due to the comfort received from the lofty tree, the healer had taken a special interest in the mother tree.  Even now, she wished the rains of Drench would wash the charcoal from Uwaritace's trunk and reveal a healthy, gleaming surface below.  No such miracle occurred.

Only dark veins running from the torched bark.  Only the patter of rain.  Only the soft whisper of her name on the wind.
moon dust in your lungs
stars in your eyes
you are a child of the cosmos,
a ruler of the skies


[ ooc -- @Neowulf
Wasn't sure how to label this but here we go~ ]
Kisamoa
#2
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.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
» I am Kaos «
Taivas the Hopebringer
#3
Taivas
She was startled.

Outwardly, though, the shaman turns an almost lazy face toward the God of Chaos.  The scent of burning flesh and coagulated blood announced his presence to her subconsciously, but with her focus tuned toward the mother, she had missed his arrival completely until his voice spilled into the air.

It takes nought but the briefest of glances to determine who had arrived.  The disfigured creature seemed smaller, standing side-by-side, than he had the few times Taivas had seen him.  The water stuck to his figure, making him appear like the mangled corpse of a massive dog left on the side of a rainy path.  Deep in the recesses of his face, she finds a surprise.

Much like the gentle tones of his voice as her speaks on the once glorious tree, there is a softness in his eyes.

They are like deep, dark pools, much like Taivas's own.  They lack the glimmer of hidden stars, but the sentiment buried within mirrors her own.  A mournful sadness and respect for the ghost of Uwaritace.

"She is not of this realm?" the shaman asks, with the vaguest hint of surprise in her voice.  Perhaps adding to her surprise was the fact that he did not know where she came from.  She suspected that Kisamoa would know mostly everything about this land.  Weren't gods supposed to be omnipotent beings?  The Fields had no gods - only the spirits.  Therefore, her knowledge on the immortal creators and deities was shallow at best.  She had long imagined massive behemoths wielding incredible magic, and Kisamoa did not live up to those expectations.

Looking at him now, with his figure so close to her own tiny frame, his face stretched impossibly thin, his mangled limbs - he does not look to be a god.  However, she knows that he holds powers she cannot understand.  He brought hope back to their realm, did he not?  He could pass between the barriers.  He could move pieces of this world.  She could never be certain what he was capable of exactly.

She takes a pause, looking back at the burned remains of the lifeline of some other land.  "That is why she is so out of place here," the shaman sagely whispers to herself, repeating the observation she had made on her first visit to the great tree.  The giant mother tree did not match her surroundings, neither in shape or size.  Taivas had simply assumed before that the original forest had burned and had been reborn from the ashes, much like the Guardians of the Wood spoke much upon.

"I suppose her home is lost, as well."

Her voice is flat, betraying none of the sorrow residing behind her dark eyes.  Without the mother tree, the forest she had birthed likely faded from memory.  Like a misfit drawn into this realm, Uwaritace mimicked many of the Rift's inhabitants.  Their original home ceased to exist, and they were left to wander as ghosts of their former selves.

Rebuilding a life is a terribly difficult process.
moon dust in your lungs
stars in your eyes
you are a child of the cosmos,
a ruler of the skies
Kisamoa
#4
If she was surprised, she didn't show it; then again, did he know to look for it? Why would it be out of the ordinary for him to appear out of the rain and dark, a wet shadow in a wet, shadowy world? He was made of these things, though his wetness was usually stickier and smelled of iron and copper and salt and fire.

"She is not of this realm?" Taivas asked, as if surprised; Kisamoa's brows furrowed on his narrow head. Why would she be? Why would anyone assume she was? He blinked, studying the pale horse's face. "Barely anything is," he responded gravely, before turning his slender skull to the mother tree. And it was true: he would almost go so far as to claim that nothing, when traced to its roots, came from the Rift itself, but he had not been there when it all began. His memories were of the void and its singing, of taming and predicting its tricky currents—of anchoring life, and snuffing out the corruption threatening to tear it all asunder.

In many ways, it felt as if Vjanta had been the first—a crystal clear sunrise over bright cerulean brooks, dew-laden grass so green the whole world as it was now seemed drab and gray. Once, she had walked proudly on the lands she'd dreamed up from faraway worlds and shepherded into the fold, but now, she was dead.

Kisamoa blinked. Mostly dead, he amended.

"Is your home lost?" he asked her, slightly curious, but from the direction he was facing, one could easily assume he was talking to the tree.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
» I am Kaos «
Taivas the Hopebringer
#5
Taivas
Barely anything is.

The notion is odd to the shaman. She knew very little of the Rift's true nature, but it explained the sometimes virulent and aggressive spirits pulsating underhoof. She missed them now, though, that the world had fallen silent. Briefly, the girl wonders how many lands the Rift had pilfered away, torn from their homes into another place and time. The unique landscape had always appeared mismatched, like a quilt made from all different bolts of fabric or old clothes. Were they all merciful thefts, or was this place trying to build something by taking from others?

Taivas suspects it might be a bit of both. The mother tree clearly had been pulled from a horrendous fire, but the other places within the Rift were not so scarred and battered. At least, not as apparently as Uwaritace.

Drifting her face from the shadow figure of Kisamoa, following his eyes to the bark. She nods silently in response to the information he imparted, but she does not inquire further - perhaps, if she were more vocal, she would have. Learning of the Rift's history would certainly be interesting, if nothing else.

However, the strange god asks of her a question in her quite, somber ramblings about the tree. Taivas does not look toward him, much as he does not direct his question directly at her. Her eyes fix upon the dancing pattern of black on ivory, and she briefly considers how to answer the question. "Yes and no," she says finally, her face revealing none of the uncertainty in her mind.

"The Fields are surely still there; my family is still there, if only in spirit," she sighs, a soft breath into the damp air swallowed by the thrumming of rain on leaves. "Yet much has changed and I cannot return."

"So, for all intents and purposes, it is indeed lost."
moon dust in your lungs
stars in your eyes
you are a child of the cosmos,
a ruler of the skies
Kisamoa
#6
His sides rose and fell to his quiet breaths—steady in the dark, despite the ache always threatening to pull a groan from his mouth. It was both worse and not; Hope's arrival had done something for the Rift, but he could still feel it bleed, a weight and judgment upon his shoulders.

He had failed. He had destroyed Helovia out of a desire for revenge and a desperate hope for salvation, but the vengeance no longer tasted sweet and he had not achieved what he had set out to do.

A failure. He did not do well with those.

Yet it was under this tree that Zekle had woken something in him; it was under this tree that he had laid his plans for a ritual to appease them (and prove that the dead better remain dead). And now it was here that some uncomfortable things were thrust at him again. Was it better to have your home destroyed—like Helovia—than have it still there, but out of reach?

While he could never have picked that course of action in reality, it begged the question nonetheless: would it have been better, had he let the Rift bleed out and die?

Saving it seemed hopeless, anyway. Nothing he'd tried had worked.

"And you are okay with that?" he found himself asking, his long tail twisting behind him, matted fur sweeping the blades of grass. "And with being here?"

Oh, it was fragile, and dangerous, the painful, tentative hope of the beast.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
» I am Kaos «