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Open Rainforest Cliffs 
Melita
Currently championing:
#41
She liked to believe it was her sister’s presence pulling her there, down into the throes of Kaos and his eldritch abomination – but the steady intoxication, the tempting force, layered amidst the trinket of the Rift Gods urged her onward, a bellowing, enticing minstrel, and like so many other times before, she paid it credence. The honeybee child followed, a steady stream of movement and motion, swallowing the desperation, the apprehension, the trepidation bobbing over the length of her soul, for she recalled the last occasion with vile vitriol (she’d watched, she’d witnessed, and been utterly incapable of doing anything worthwhile except being plunged into the abyss, here, where they all crept, crawled, and quivered). His voice was a poignant, haunting condemnation, and she tried not to freeze in place when she heard it proclaim their next actions (and how she dearly loved to learn, and how she hated hearing it slip from his mouth, as if he stained the pure nature of knowledge and education, as if he enjoyed the lengths of their ignorance).
 
She would though. She sometimes could only do that, stare and grow and fan the flames of her rebellion. Sila chirped in agreement; and they were one – sparks and promises of days to come.
 
Melita’s eyes focused on the crowd, on their reactions, pondering what she was supposed to be doing. Bobbing her head in agreement (no)? Bowing and groveling at his feet (never)? Spurning the very fiber of his essence (done and done)? Her stare picked up remnants of those beasts she could call friends and kin (Iskra, with Otem, with Volterra), but every ounce of her being was drawn specifically to her twin, yielding with a vibrant contortion of unsung power and absolution, coiling herself directly at Clementine’s side. She still didn’t see her mother. She still didn’t see Geen. But bravery came from within, and not the anointing of so many others souls around her (however, she still wanted them, still craved their presence, because they were strong and mighty, because every little girl wanted their mother or a guardian to shield them from the upcoming storm) – and she leaned into her sister’s shoulder, breathed endurance and fortitude, assured, pledged, and proclaimed. “It’ll be okay, Clem,” she ensured, a whisper in the other girl’s ear, hoping to stop the trembling, the panic, the unease and misgivings curling through both of their beings; praying it’d be enough (she’d be enough). 


Melita
the fires found a home in me
art | codes

@Clementine
Amaris
Currently championing:
#42
amaris
dragonborn
They followed the crowds.

Amaris tested her wings as soon as she was able, though flying here, like with everything else, just wasn't the same as home Helovia, that realm that was forever lost to them. Dramyrth flew with her, never moving far from her side - the silence of the bond seemed intermittent, and he otherwise seemed in perfect health.

Having no breath is not perfect health, the annoyed thought managed to leak through the random silences.

Of course, Amaris crooned back, flooding what was left of the bond with consolatory emotions, though the whispers of wry amusement could not help but rise within her too. Though she was still searching for that confirmation that everyone she knew and loved and cared about were all alive and well in this strange new world, she had moments of normalcy.

The moments were fleeting, and almost always followed by that crushing numbness that was permanently present, hidden just beneath the surface of her smiles and laughs.

It wasn't just the crowd she followed, but a much deeper urging, a burning desire that seeped into her scales where his touch has washed over her when she arrived in this land. The air was heavy with the season, rain threatened in the dark clouds above, but still she pressed onwards, and landed on the outskirts of the gathering.

Tension was thick, and Amaris was distracted between her feelings of happiness at seeing so many familiar faces alive and an uneasy terror at seeing the monstrous beast Kisamoa.

She knew now that this was Kaos, this was the one who wrought terror and destruction across Helovia, the one who had cuased so much pain, so much death and yet..

She didn't really care.

She looked at him, along with all the others, she paid attention to his words, watched as his magic reached out to touch various others, and she just didn't feel anything. She didn't feel hatred, or a fierce desire to maul him, to strike him down with the scythe upon her tail.

The dragonmare overheard the murmurs of the crowd, the varying degrees of threats an promises to reap and ruin this powerful being, who for all intents and purposes was the God of this land, the one they would bow down to, one way or another.

It had returned, that vacant, yawning numbness had swallowed her up again, and so she stood, silent, indifferent, as Kisamoa vanished and the clouds finally released their full torrent of rain upon them all.
sky above me — earth below me
and fire within me
Volterra
Currently championing:
#43


There's another voice - hello Sultan. The familiar word brings an ache to his heart, and he turns to see the source of it. It's a young boy - Volterra recognises him immediately as Ampere's youngling, always a gregarious colt and active amidst the herd. "Iskra," he rumbles. It's good to see that someone remembers him as what he used to be - that someone remembers the good old days, a loyalist in a world full of strangers.

"I'm sorry for your loss." The words are genuine, and it's easy to see the mourning in Volterra's crimson stare. He has not yet given himself time to grieve for all those that he lost, and admittedly Isopia's death has taken presidence over all the others. Ampere's death, though, hurts for an entirely different reason. She was his co-leader, a strong and able woman, and to see her life ended so brutally was....a shock to the grizzled warlord, despite his years of experience. She did not deserve to die like that, and he can only imagine what it's like for her son to have had to see such a thing.

There's too many people here for him to be able to check up on his children, so he focuses instead on Kisamoa as the foul heathen speaks again. His ears flatten a tad, muscles tensing with desire to crush, but he forces himself to zone in on Erthe's words instead. He follows wordlessly, nodding a goodbye to Iskra as he does so and casting a final dark glare at the false God that stands before him as he blends away into the shadows.

AND THE WORLD WILL END IN FIRE
dragons: iconian fonts.dafont


Speaks to @Iskra

Clementine
Currently championing:
#44
LOOK INTO YOUR HEART AND YOU'LL FIND LOVE

The flower girl simply stood for a moment, too consumed in her own desperate search for the familiar face of her mother amongst the throng that had been dragged to this place by Kaos.  She wondered what happened to those that were left behind.  Had they met the same fate as the Gods? Was it possible for those who hadn’t rushed through the Portal in the moment of destruction to still find this place. The sunshine-girl struggled to hold out hope that she’d find her mother in this place, but held fast to the thin strands of hope that remained.

It was only when she afforded herself the opportunity to stop and think and breathe did she realize that there were, in fact, some familiar faces here in the rift.  She recognized the once-Sultan, though she didn’t know him, per se.  Perhaps more importantly, Iskra was there.  The one she and Melita could probably count as their oldest friend seeing as how he was present at their birth.  The only one that she had known longer were those of her twin sister and her mother.  A tiny sigh of relief broke free of her lips, as she’d been unaware she’d been holding her breath. Perhaps more had survived the fall of Helovia than she’d thought.  It’d been so chaotic after all.  The explosions of light. The smoke.

And then nothing at all.  

She shivered, unconsciously - unwillingly, before slightly curved ears flicked in the direction of Kaos himself. The girl took an unconscious step back when Kaos announced that he was crafted from the very Gods her mother had once spoken of defeating.  Her mother had told her about the crocodile, the wolf, and the tiger she had fought.  She was glad that she and Prudence had thought to hide the scale, for now she felt somewhat differently about carrying such a thing.

She leaned closer to Melita, her anchor in this world.  Since they hadn’t found mother, they’d simply have to be enough for eachother until they found her.  Clem could do nothing for a moment but simply nod at her sister’s words of comfort, whilst taking a deep breath so as to steady her resolve. “So I guess this means we go exploring, huh?” she queried, gamely looking up at her sister, trying her best to mirror some of the honeybee’s bravery.  

C L E M E N T I N E
image credit


@Melita

Please tag Clementine in every post.
Force and magic are permitted, but please check before inflicting serious injury.
image credit
Sidhra
Currently championing:
#45

I NEVER KNEW DAYLIGHT COULD BE SO VIOLENT.

Sidhra was doing her best to piece together the pieces of this scenario as best she could.  Some things were abundantly clear to her.  These Helovians were brought to the Rift by this Kaos as they called him.  They didn’t seem all too pleased about the circumstances, to be certain. They certainly held a fair amount of disdain for the creature.  As each spoke in turn, Sidhra’s sensitive ears flicked and twitched in the direction of the voice.  She still felt more comfortable in the shadows of the trees, but the little fae was still able to make a fair determination as to what was going in.

But when Kaos announced that he was a amalgamation of the previous Gods, that piqued the little fae’s attention more so than the complaints of these newcomers.  It certainly explained why and how certain magics had begun to return to the Rift.  It explained why lands long feared dead had begun to stir.  There was much to process with all this new information, and she certainly had a lot to tell her sister.  She knew that Anuya was eager to meet these newcomers, but it seemed that they were here to stay and that perhaps she had been wrong to suggest to her sister to keep her distance from them.

But still, she couldn’t help but thinking how she could ever come to trust those whom had killed the Gods of this land?  But at the same time she found herself curious. How could mere mortals kill the Gods of the Rift?  Perhaps there was more to be learned of these Helovians, information that she could attempt to flesh out as these strangers immersed themselves further in her home.  When Kaos disappeared and the rains returned, the little fae did not linger.  Instead, the little mare turned and disappeared into the shadows - intent on sharing what she had learned with her kin.

S I D H R A

image credit
Wessex
Currently championing:
#46
As if her newfound ‘hat’ isn’t enough of a ‘welcome home’ gift, it seems as if she is literally allergic to this damn place. Not long after helping Aquila and Craonos, a nasty looking, scaly, red, itchy rash breaks out on her belly. It’s juuuuuust far enough away that she can’t reach it with her horns, and only the edges with one of her hooves. And don’t get her started on using a tail spike, because that baby didn’t relieve the itch, it just cut the skin, and that was even worse until it healed.

The worse part is that there isn’t much she can do about it, except find a healer, and she lost track of the Basiners (can they even call themselves that anymore) in this crazy, fucked up world. Exploration for Wessex is a tricky thing, because she’s so naturally cautious - eyes and ears try to be everywhere at once, but this world is nothing like Helovia. Nothing like she’s ever encountered before, even in all her travels. She briefly wonders if this is the land from which the mutants were spawned, the land of death and decay and consuming mold, where everything is dangerous and only the (actual) fittest, most cunning survive. The horned woman quickly comes to the conclusion, however, that this pondering isn’t beneficial and only takes away from the task at hand, which is exploration and survival.

There is no room for distractions.

This torrential rain can go fuck itself, though. Honestly.

In a dour mood, due to being unable to locate anyone she knows and the seemingly endless supply of rain (seriously is there a feedback hose connected to an eternal spring, or something?), she finds herself being inexplicably pulled in one direction, as if the bone in her head had a mind of its own. So the reptilian woman gives in and follows the call, fairly certain that there will either be a powerful being at the end of this rope, or certain death. And wouldya look at that, she’s right. Cue the eyeroll.

Kaos demands that they learn about the Rift, and Wessex just looks back at him with a derisive gaze. What did he think they were going to do, just sit around and twitch their tails? Well, some of them might play the hopeless act, but she is intent on making the best of a shitty situation, so really his instructions seem to be superfluous and almost condescending. As she’s busy thinking less-than-pleasant thoughts, a bit of gold catches her attention out of the corner of her eye, and as she turns her now-massive head, she recognizes Amaris and immediately moves towards the dragon-mare, swinging her head to get others to move the fuck out of the way. “Amaris!” she calls out in greeting, giving the champagne colored lady a once over. “Good to see you on this side. Everything ok?”


@Amaris
Yael
Currently championing:
#47

yael

He has become the God of the Old Testament. Wrathful and mighty, all-powerful, and demanding of obedience.

Perhaps that’s who he was all along, and she was too stupid, too needy, too blind to see it. Perhaps he wears a cloak of many colors and puts it on for his chosen ones, his prophets.

Perhaps Yael has fallen out of favor.

She trundles along (swaying heavily with the monstrosity that is Gaal’s child, as it seems to move organs to the edge of functional space, her abdomen extended to its utmost width), mostly dry under her magicked cloak, and oh so very grateful to Raeden for this gift. Zani, too, in all his sickness and misery is very glad for the dry place to nestle into. His thoughts are clouded with feelings of hatred for this new place, disgust at the weather, and alternating bouts of dizziness and nausea, which make him no more than a toddler most of the time. She tends to him as best she can, but the two are a bit of a sorry pair indeed, especially when she becomes momentarily trapped in almost knee-deep mud, sinking under the extra weight of the son in her belly.

They make it out, of course, because she is determined not to die like a beast in the mud in strange land, but the little golden woman looks like she’s been to hell and back now; mud spattered up to the curves of her belly, her wingtips covered in the heavy stuff, a thoroughly bedraggled, filthy mane and tail, and a look that evokes out the dragon inside. Come on, fuck with her. Please.

Due to this mishap, however, she misses Kaos almost entirely, catching the tail end of his words and it leaves her feeling strangely empty. Who else fought for him, who spread the ‘good news’ and who put her fucking trust in him. No good deed goes unpunished, does it? The anger at the injustice of it all, at the way she feels like she’s been flung aside like an old, used rag, sears through her until it seems to collect in her abdomen and send a sharp pang through her belly. This, too, is utterly infuriating because this is not the time! A very un-Yael like sound roars out of her, full of fire and brimstone and the knowledge that she’s going to give birth in the very near future, and that is just so not what she wants to do right now.

Not here, not now, not in the pouring rain, not knowing if Gaal’s made it through, and certainly not in the middle of a group.

trust your heart if the seas catch fire

live by love, though the stars walk backwards

Image © littlewillow-art




[If anyone needs a second post for this thread, feel free to hit her up, all welcome ^_^ ]
Iskra
Currently championing: Caevoc
#48
"Hey," he greeted Otem softly as she placed herself beside him and Volterra, quietly attentive to Kisamoa, as they all were. Iskra couldn't know all the workings of her mind - he still barely knew her in any fashion at all - but he suspected she shared some of his same thoughts given both their mothers had been destroyed because of this monster in front of them. In a show of solidarity Iskra leaned slightly into her so that if she didn't move away his shoulder would press against hers; a method of support, of comfort (even if not for her, then for him). Was she just as angry? Was she also wondering how to take down this titan of entropy? Iskra might have been shocked to learn she wasn't.

Volterra's voice saying his name refocused Iskra on the Sultan. He smiled at first, thankful for the familiarity in the black desert-dweller, glad for the image of a leader in this wayward time, and happy that the stallion knows him by name even. Yet the grin falters, and Iskra stiffens a bit, eyes glancing away. What exactly do you say to that? "Thanks for your apology, it means a lot? I feel better now?". It wasn't anything Volterra did wrong, Iskra knew that, besides what else can you even say when someone dies, much less like that? There's nothing but grief and emptiness, and hollow words to fill it. "We've all lost something," Iskra finally mumbled in response, glancing back up. "We have to make sure that doesn't continue," he says with a strength and certainness that won't remain for long - just a puffed out chest and a stern face for the crowd.

Ears fell back as Kaos spoke, teeth tightening on each other as the merciful being mocked and insulted their ruined homeland, fallen deities, and tattered families. "You were wrong, I am right, so bow to me now or die," was the gist of it - a charming introduction to the church of the Rift.

Is Iskra understood more about the truth of what drove Kaos, he might have been more understanding. All he knew was the fables his mother had shared though, and all that was apparent to him was a cruel and spiteful monster that was not above deception and betrayal, qualities that did not seem worth worshipping in any god (one of the Moon's greatest flaws on Helovia). The end does not justify the means - if Kaos was truly wronged, then doing more wrong would not make anything right. He punished the innocent and guilty alike, all in the name of vengeance and just deserts. Iskra was left to suffer for the wrongs of his mother, while others who had actively participated in the slaying of the Rift gods were left alive. There was no sense in the punishment, and so it did not, could not, settle inside Iskra.

That the creature spared them and promised rewards did nothing but solidify Iskra's disapproval. If killing them all isn't the answer then surely bribery, right? Iskra snorted. No matter what flowers this beast decorated itself in, it had already shown its true face, and it was ugly, and Iskra would never forget.

Teal gaze darted back towards Volterra as Kaos made his departure, though soon enough Iskra was ducking under his raised wings to keep the abrupt rain off his back. Thus he didn't see the teal mist travel to Otem, and only turned back to her when she nudged him.
"Hmm?" he asked, distracted with all these strange, uncomfortable feelings of hate churning inside him. "Oh uh yeah here I'll get it out," he murmured as he reached to tug one of the leaves from her mane, oblivious to their magical nature of even the fact Otem might like them.

Whether she moved away from him, or he continued to absently struggle with the leaves, didn't matter once a familiar voice prodded him from the side. Iskra paused for a moment, sucking in a breath of apprehension, before turning to Mauna with a freshly drawn smile. "Hey Mauna Mauna, fee fie foe fauna!" Iskra greeted cheerfully, hoping to raise the little colt's spirits with his silliness if nothing else. He reached over to gently tousle the boy's mane-fuzz, lipping affectionately at his withers. He could see the weariness in the boy and it troubled him, but he mistook it for sadness, for a mellow personality, not the gradual malnutrition he was combatting. So when Mauna asked him if he'd seen his mom, Iskra didn't let his smile falter even if it was like pompeii crumbling into ash inside of him.

"Your mom kid? She was smote," just didn't seem like the proper thing to say, no matter how much you classed it up. Besides, Iskra would let the father lead that discussion, and if Zekle hadn't told him yet, Iskra bet he had good reason. Better to save him from some pain, at least for a while.
"Not yet, but maybe we should have a look!" he hoped he sounded as upbeat as he imagined in his head because it was all he had not to let his voice crack, not to let his eyes dull or his features falter. Quickly he glanced over at Otem, hoping she'd be tactful enough to be kind in this moment. "This here is your sister though, Otem!" Iskra stepped back a step so Mauna could get a better view of the leaf-maned girl on his other side.

Victory is in my veins
I will not negotiate
Iskra
background texture credit to Stuart Rankin at flickr.com

@Mauna @Otem @Volterra

Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.
Mauna
Currently championing:
#49
 
The little mountain child laughed in spite of the pain, the agony, the apprehension clawing its way through him – any listlessness, lull, or lethargy could be lifted by Iskra’s warm spirit and heart. His giggle was a wave of innocence and ignorance, blending and shifting against the blue and gold youth’s frame at his silly rhyme, at his attempts to make him feel better – and the love he had for his uncle, for his family increased in a monumental burst of essence and life, turning his lips into a tiny, cordial smile, looking up into the haze of rain and defiance with naught more than hope. He even attempted a little nip at Iskra’s shoulder, uttering another laugh all the while, as if naught else condemned them, as if the world was not shifting beneath an enemy’s claws, as if they had any other purpose other than survival. The boy didn’t see the crack in Iskra’s veneer, didn’t hear the shattering decibels, the discordant press of things that couldn’t come back, souls that couldn’t return, playing in the void, unaware of where dangers laid or when realities would come to snatch and drag fantasy away. He was allowed his delusions, his disbeliefs, his cluelessness; saved, perhaps, for another time, another moment, when he’d just as spurned and haunted as the rest of them. “Okay, Iskra fiska!” The babe agreed, intending to shuffle away, make his mark between the crowds and find her – like it was such a simple task, and she hadn’t gone up in a cloud of smoke and ash, fire and brimstone, chaos and corruption, felled because she’d been brave, because she’d yearned to save them all.
 
But then Iskra said something else that gave him pause, and the boy lifted his head towards his uncle, tilting it ever so gently, eyes rounded in wonder, in amazement, in a serene sense of curiosity that every child possessed before bedlam took over their lives. Your sister, Otem was a phrase ringing through the haze and fog of his mind, making him shift and turn beyond the older youth, glancing towards the femme nestled and garbed in leaves. He never thought of having a sister, a sibling, Iskra had always been close enough to warrant the title, despite the way lineage dictated him as his father’s brother, and the surprise shocked him into silence for the smallest of moments. Then his heart felt filled to the brim, wild in its incandescent crescendos, with its immediate acceptance, and his whole face lit as if she’d hung the moon and the stars and the sky, aligned with other mountains and ravens and lions, his grin growing wider and wider, movements hastening to the front of Iskra’s chest so he could see her fully. “Sister!” He cried, drawn to the way she seemed like his mother, pondering why he hadn’t picked her out of the crowd sooner, his silver frame growing closer and closer, daring to be bold and intrepid. “I’m Mauna!” There was a hope and a prayer nestled there, intertwined in his eyes, in his crimson gaze, that she would immediately like him, that she would yearn to play and be silly, that she would beckon him to her side so they can share in the delight of youths and bonds.

Mauna
CROWNS HAVE THEIR COMPASS-LENGTH OF DAYS THEIR DATE-
TRIUMPHS THEIR TOMB-FELICITY, HER FATE-
OF NOUGHT BUT EARTH CAN EARTH MAKE US PARTAKER,
BUT KNOWLEDGE MAKES A KING MOST LIKE HIS MAKER.

image | coding

@Iskra  @Otem
Melita
Currently championing:
#50
Melita was part shield, part sword, for her sister – would do anything for her, would hasten brutality, ferocity, and barbarity to ensure Clementine was never harmed, beaten, or broken down. But she didn’t know what to do in this situation, when their youth fluttered carelessly in front of them, when their ignorance tied them up in strings and knots, when chaos had descended so swiftly, so powerfully, and she lacked the guidance, the wisdom, to do anything but listen. She was made of impulsiveness, bravery, and audacity, and it churned through her stomach to feel her sister tremble beside her – lending only her shoulder, only her strength, to conquer the wayward demons, the shifting shadows, the callous contortions of everything mottled and blemished before them.
 
But at least they weren’t alone – they still had each other. They always would. The honeybee girl would make sure of that.
 
“Yes,” she vowed, nodded at her twin’s decree, pretending that everything was fine, they could gain wisdom and sagacity from the cold, unfeeling, eldritch reaches of this world, become another schism in the growing sedition. “We’ll go exploring and learn. Maybe we’ll even find mom! It’ll be an adventure!” She said it with so much cheer, so much exuberance, so much wild, untamed intonations, in hopes of preserving Clementine’s dreams, in whittling and shaping a series of machinations and quiet, unsung rebellion. Her smile widened, and her features sculpted a whimsical outline – full of indomitable fire and tenacity. 



Melita
the fires found a home in me
art | codes

@Clementine