Uwaritace
07-28-2018, 02:47 PM
His mind wandered, but it found neither solutions nor ways out. He couldn't even tell what he thought of: it was just a mixture of impressions and emotions, fleeting memories, lost dreams, hope and starlight. Like ink flowering in water, brief and meaningless.
He contemplated leaving Taivas then. After all, what did he have to offer? He had told her of Uwaritace, of how she had come to be here, but if she had more questions, he wasn't sure he had the answers.
Besides, he hurt. His body ached.
Yet he found himself rooted there, in a place where the desire to leave could not quite overcome his apathy. He could've stood for eons in that wet, sorrowful place. It mirrored his mood.
But, beside him, the gentle little girl suddenly snapped her head towards him, and, rather startled, Kisamoa looked first over his shoulder, then down at himself, wondering what possibly could've evoked such a reaction in her? But when he saw her face again, heard her voice, both were brimming with excitement, with the very thing he had sought to restore: hope.
It was as painful as it was beautiful.
He wanted to tell her, no, Uwaritace holds no sway over these lands—she was not one of the Living Trees, who had helped ground the Rift when it was still in its cradle, a time Kisamoa could not remember, for there had been no gods then.
But how could he say no to the pale, flickering fire in her eyes? How could he say no to what he had asked of them—help, and hope? He was fickle, he was tired, and just like Zekle's sorrow beneath this very tree had moved him then, so Taivas moved him now.
"I am not a life-giver," he said, slowly, after a moment. He couldn't lie to her. He couldn't claim to know how to heal the charred body of the tree, and revive the wounded spirit within. He looked to Uwaritace, and then back to Taivas. Oh, if only the Gods had never fallen... perhaps, in a less sick frame of mind, Reszo, or Vjanta, who was the aspect of life, could've saved her.
"But," he went on, not wishing to disappoint her, or see her face fall; he wasn't sure he could bear it. "The Rift works in mysterious ways. Perhaps you could help her." He peered at her with his dark, dark eyes, the cogs and gears of his mind turning, now that it had a problem of a slightly more manageable magnitude to tackle. "A tree needs strong roots, and sunlight," he mused. "The latter is not a problem, but her roots are cold and silent, and you are still a tumbleweed. You will need to put down your own roots, if you are to help her."
He contemplated leaving Taivas then. After all, what did he have to offer? He had told her of Uwaritace, of how she had come to be here, but if she had more questions, he wasn't sure he had the answers.
Besides, he hurt. His body ached.
Yet he found himself rooted there, in a place where the desire to leave could not quite overcome his apathy. He could've stood for eons in that wet, sorrowful place. It mirrored his mood.
But, beside him, the gentle little girl suddenly snapped her head towards him, and, rather startled, Kisamoa looked first over his shoulder, then down at himself, wondering what possibly could've evoked such a reaction in her? But when he saw her face again, heard her voice, both were brimming with excitement, with the very thing he had sought to restore: hope.
It was as painful as it was beautiful.
He wanted to tell her, no, Uwaritace holds no sway over these lands—she was not one of the Living Trees, who had helped ground the Rift when it was still in its cradle, a time Kisamoa could not remember, for there had been no gods then.
But how could he say no to the pale, flickering fire in her eyes? How could he say no to what he had asked of them—help, and hope? He was fickle, he was tired, and just like Zekle's sorrow beneath this very tree had moved him then, so Taivas moved him now.
"I am not a life-giver," he said, slowly, after a moment. He couldn't lie to her. He couldn't claim to know how to heal the charred body of the tree, and revive the wounded spirit within. He looked to Uwaritace, and then back to Taivas. Oh, if only the Gods had never fallen... perhaps, in a less sick frame of mind, Reszo, or Vjanta, who was the aspect of life, could've saved her.
"But," he went on, not wishing to disappoint her, or see her face fall; he wasn't sure he could bear it. "The Rift works in mysterious ways. Perhaps you could help her." He peered at her with his dark, dark eyes, the cogs and gears of his mind turning, now that it had a problem of a slightly more manageable magnitude to tackle. "A tree needs strong roots, and sunlight," he mused. "The latter is not a problem, but her roots are cold and silent, and you are still a tumbleweed. You will need to put down your own roots, if you are to help her."
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
[ "Putting down roots" is rather vague, but signifies something large, ie: coming to the point that she feels like some horses in the Rift are family (doesn't need to be romantic), joining/founding a herd, having a foal, etc. It's kind of up to you/Taivas to decide what feels like having put down roots in the Rift! ]
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
