pretty little liars

He hurts. Everything hurts. From his shoulder and face, burnt by the lava he emits that now appears to burn him, to the white-hot scald in the depths of his mind that he can't shake no matter how hard he tries. The yearling knows nothing but a whirlwind of pain, relieved only when he thinks about the tasks that pulse inside his brain - share three secrets. Help someone with their trial. Help another tell a destructive lie. None of those things are in the volcano-boy's nature. He doesn't keep many secrets - he doesn't understand them - and he doesn't tell lies. He doesn't know how to help somebody, because he doesn't possess the empathy required. Everything that the pain has given him is impossible for him to achieve, and yet he must else his mind burn for eternity. As though it is not enough that he is cast into a hideous new routine, into strangeness and lack of order where nothing fits into his strict mental schedule, he now has to deal with this. He's flying haphazardly through the forest, a thin stream of lava oozing from his shoulder as a result of his anguish. It burns everywhere it touches, and he unleashes an ungodly howl of agony that echoes through the trees. It feels good to scream, to bellow until his throat is raw with the sound, until it doesn't hurt quite so badly anymore. The yearling lands, stumbling slightly upon doing so, and stands with his sides heaving, his wings held at half-mast as he desperately tries to shake the torture inside his mind and upon his skin.

image: naia-art

@Kid

KID I have been trying to make the best of the situation at hand, attempting to adjust to the daunting world of the Rift, with the glowing eyes and flies that buzz incessantly in my ears as I move through the rainforest. This place seems to be the only location I can get to without swimming and risking running into some ungodly monster of the deep to strand myself on some shitty little island in the distance (no thanks, I'll pass on being shark bait). I feel the sullenness sinking in, the melancholy of entrapment within some fucked up little plain, as if those without an aid in getting across vast oceans were meant to remain in such a restrictive area. It felt off, as though there should be more out there in the world that we just couldn't get to, shrouded in thick black mist that left you gagging if you ever attempted to step into it. I felt like cattle to slaughter, rounded up and restricted, no freedom as I pace through the rainforest, anxious and aggressive, on edge. I was keeping my cool, but things were not going to be as they had been, there would be no more playful meetings with mysterious men, charming strangers and giving them a performance that would leave them breathless - I could not trust anyone here, there was nothing safe about this sanctuary offered by Kaos, it was filled with dangers that lurked, eyes that always watched. Bubblegum catches on a faint glow from above, an echoing howl that takes my attention (why is everyone screaming these days?) and a thunderous crash. Suddenly there is a child tumbling through to the earth, shaking and - oozing? (I don't think children do that regularly) His shoulder drips with bubbling magma, burning and brewing beneath the cracks of his skin, leaking out over his leg and sizzling as it slides down to the dirt. I can recognize the blank white of his features, the glittering red-orange of his eyes, the thick build of his body - Volterra's child. I think I saw him at the Portal as well, before being overwhelmed by a sea of familiar faces, of Tyrath and Sabre and Volterra. Those who actually mattered, and not the filly who swore she would seek revenge against Kaos for all he had done despite the fact that there was no way to defeat such a force of evil. She had approached Tyrath and I and preached, and I had brushed her aside because I do not care enough to follow her down a path that will only end in slaughter. "Perhaps if you scream a little louder you'll feel better?" I settle beside him, feeling the gruffness of my voice carry through, parting the silence as I stare at the boy, taking it upon myself to push aside my own unease and be there for my younger brother. I look him over, in the way he shakes and holds his wings unsteadily, looks disturbed, like he's being swallowed by agony, by despair and there's more beyond that - is that loss, clinging to him so desperately? In the way he seems so unsure, the way he fumes and the way his shoulder drips with boiling lava, burning a path down his leg and into the ground at his hooves - what an odd magic (seems... painful? Dangerous?). "What has your panties in a twist?"

@Vulkán

Words hit his battered, broken ears and he turns, wings still wobbling with fatigue and his shoulder smarting as the lava burns against his flesh. His jaw is set and his tongue hangs gently through the cage of his teeth, panting and inhaling air as though it's the last chance he'll get to do so. Everywhere hurts, from his burning head to his burning shoulder to his burning face, and it's quite fortunate that it takes a hell of a lot more than this to rouse the yearling's temper else he would be leaving explosions everywhere he sets foot. He knows the grullo that approaches him - the white skull-face denotes a brother, and he vaguely remembers seeing him in the Portal before all hell broke loose. This stallion is a relation, a sibling; does that mean he'll be willing to help an emotionally-stunted, useless, lava-burnt boy for nothing in return? The other male speaks, and Vulkán blinks serenely. The sarcasm is completely lost on him - he does not understand sarcasm, so takes his brother's advice at face value. "Do you think so?" he replies, his tones completely genuine. If this older man is offering advice out of the kindness of his heart, then maybe he really will help the lava-boy with his quest. Truly, a more difficult trial would have been hard to find; when he struggles with emotions, it is next to impossible for him to magically summon up three just to get rid of the agony inside his head. Then comes a question, one that causes the yearling to blink again and study his brother with a tilted quad-horned skull, trying his best to grasp what he means. "What do you mean? Our species does not wear panties, which means it is not possible for them to grow twisted." There's a certain wide-eyed innocence in the boy's face, a genuine naivety that is at odds with his surprisingly deep and utterly monotone voice. There's no inflections in the speech, no telltale sign of emotion or mood, simply a matter-of-face rumble that betrays nothing. There's nothing to betray, not really.

image: naia-art

@Kid