Ill tidings

He shifted, uneasy and feeling crowded in the close quarters of the secretive grotto.  Riftians milled around him, murmuring, whispering, waiting.  He did not see anyone he knew.  He had desperately hoped… But hope was foolish and he should have known better. Ilunga, a fascinating creature of the deep, spoke.  He was somewhat familiar with her colony, as he had done much traveling in the Rift before he was stranded in Helovia, but beyond name and appearance he didn’t know her. He listened.  Questions, so many questions.  No one seemed to know who these invaders were, or why they had come.   The new presence dwelling in the Rift disturbed Raistlyn more than the influx of Helovians. When it had spoken to him, it had nearly shredded his mind with the power of its presence.  It felt both familiar and alien, and it seemed to know him.  Initially, he had felt an overwhelming sense of relief when he had stumbled dizzy and nauseous from the whirling vortex of the black portal.  Home.  The Rift.  He was back, at last.  But that relief had been short-lived, once the malevolent force had appeared. The gods were dead.  So how could this be? He had watched the slaughter of the gods that day on the sands of both Helovia and the Rift, watched and done nothing.  The dark presence of the portal was right—he was a traitor. But Raistlyn did not know if the gods were worth saving. After all, what had they done for the Riftians, except seeking to control, manipulate, and corrupt.  No, he was not sorry for the gods’ deaths.  He was sorry, however, that the Helovians had botched the job up somehow.  Perhaps they had not killed the gods after all.   Another mare replied to Ilunga’s initial address, offering her opinion on the infestation.  The mare’s countenance was grim, her voice hostile and unforgiving. She despised the Helovians. He now wondered if many in the cavern felt the same way.   So concerned about his own people, he had not given much thought to the Helovians when he had arrived back on home soil, other than they were much too soft for this land and that the Rift would swallow them whole, if it had not already.  What did he feel towards the godkillers?  Mostly indifference.  Resentment, if anything, a weary, strained resentment towards the godkillers. When would they learn? Perhaps they never would. Meddling in the affairs of gods, killing gods, would only bring destruction upon them all. He had learned long ago to walk his own Path, and avoid the eyes of the gods, for those eyes are hungry and jealous. But instead of remaining indifferent, he found himself bristling with mild irritation at the marble mare’s next words. What were they going to do with them?  Like they were some sort of disease to be purged.  He snorted softly.  As if there was anything they could do.  They might very well be outnumbered at this point.   “They are Helovians,” he stated simply.  He had not planned on speaking, but no one had offered any information of substance yet. Only speculation and crude comments about infestations.  “And they have nowhere else to go. That is why they are here.”  He held the gazes of those gathered, his indigo eyes cold and flinty.  "Many Riftians crossed to their world years ago through a portal. They offered refuge and protection to us there.”   He stated the facts and left it at that. Let them make of it what they would. In his experience, people only hear what they want to hear, and from the hostility he had seen so far, he was not so sure these Riftians would want to hear what he had to say.