Hraunor
He couldn’t place her – for she was created during the fall. When the gods were alive but separated from their realities, where her mother had hid her away as a young fawn under the protection of the Pinnacle’s Protector, hoping one day someone might awake her when they needed her. But what her mother didn’t anticipate would be the sheer mass of the corruption that had spread through the Rift. The gods had died, Kisamoa birthed, and Hope had slumbered the years since deep within the Rift. It was only by luck that Ajani had thought to try and bring the hope to her, to wake her despite being hidden for so long.
It was only by luck that she had opened the Heart and snagged Kisamoa’s interest on the way here.
Yet her attacks had only angered Kisamoa, and where his booming voice might cause others to flinch, to apologize, to flee, she only laughed. ”I was made for vengeance.” She wanted to tell him how much of a lie it seemed, too caught up in his own existence to try and fix things. Perhaps Hope felt like she could be the true savior, to be the sacrificial lamb so to speak in terms of figuring out how to better fix the Rift, how to fix and mend the Hearts from bleeding out. But she wasn’t the one.
”What are you implying?” His voice had grown cold, but Hope’s warmth spread across the ledge they stood upon like a soft hug, grinning ever so kindly to Kisamoa, a mask upon a darker thought. ”Come with me?” She began with a tilt of her antlered head before slipping down a path toward the inner portions of Hraunor where the heat would be unbearable from the lava. But they were lesser gods, they could handle some heat.
When she stopped, she hoped that Kisamoa had followed, and she shifted her antlered head to glance at him as her hopelights continued their anxious dance. ”The Hearts are dying, bleeding out, as you know. I think there’s only one thing we can do to try and fix it.” She began, edging him toward the corner of the cave should he follow her into it. Deep within the center, a large hopelight danced and spiraled around a little spread of volcanic glass. She peeked into it briefly before lifting her head and closing her eyes. ““We must find them, their spirits, return them to the world.” Her voice had taken on an almost summoning type of sound, an echoing lull that vibrated around the cavern. She knew she didn't need to elaborate, that Kisamoa had already known this to be true. “You are scared.”
“Talk.”
It was only by luck that she had opened the Heart and snagged Kisamoa’s interest on the way here.
Yet her attacks had only angered Kisamoa, and where his booming voice might cause others to flinch, to apologize, to flee, she only laughed. ”I was made for vengeance.” She wanted to tell him how much of a lie it seemed, too caught up in his own existence to try and fix things. Perhaps Hope felt like she could be the true savior, to be the sacrificial lamb so to speak in terms of figuring out how to better fix the Rift, how to fix and mend the Hearts from bleeding out. But she wasn’t the one.
”What are you implying?” His voice had grown cold, but Hope’s warmth spread across the ledge they stood upon like a soft hug, grinning ever so kindly to Kisamoa, a mask upon a darker thought. ”Come with me?” She began with a tilt of her antlered head before slipping down a path toward the inner portions of Hraunor where the heat would be unbearable from the lava. But they were lesser gods, they could handle some heat.
When she stopped, she hoped that Kisamoa had followed, and she shifted her antlered head to glance at him as her hopelights continued their anxious dance. ”The Hearts are dying, bleeding out, as you know. I think there’s only one thing we can do to try and fix it.” She began, edging him toward the corner of the cave should he follow her into it. Deep within the center, a large hopelight danced and spiraled around a little spread of volcanic glass. She peeked into it briefly before lifting her head and closing her eyes. ““We must find them, their spirits, return them to the world.” Her voice had taken on an almost summoning type of sound, an echoing lull that vibrated around the cavern. She knew she didn't need to elaborate, that Kisamoa had already known this to be true. “You are scared.”
“Talk.”
HOPE
changes everything
changes everything
HOPE CHANGES EVERYTHING
