07-22-2017, 12:02 AM (This post was last modified: 07-22-2017, 05:20 PM by Roskuld.)
I’d gotten here by flying and just thinking about that detail was enough to set me off.
I’d decided to make a burial site for Chico, to finally send him off, and this pretty-ass island was good for it. I mean, it was still wet and cold but I was able to find a dryish spot that was mostly hidden by fanned palm leaves that arched high overhead, catching like 89% of the raindrops that fell through the canopy. I ain’t have a body so I just found some moldy coconuts and dug them deeply into the dirt, the pure exertion of digging several feet into the jungle ground being its own gift. But then that wasn’t enough--so I decided to be fancy and I found some flowers and I burned them, setting them aflame with a spark of my shockblood, because I’d gotten myself mixed up with the concepts of flowers for someone’s grave and burning incense for spiritual cleansing, so I guess I ended up doing both.
Except it sort of backfired on me, cuz even though those rose leaves were smoldering with an earthy, homey, pleasant scent, it was fucking me up and pretty soon I was losing track of exactly what I was doing, or that I was supposed to be fucked up over the death of my companion. I mean, he probably would’ve liked this; I was sprawled on the ground, the world around me spinning in a sluggish, languid twilight of the soggy setting sun, and I belted out a funeral march.
“I….I really miss my Chiiiiiiicoooooooo.”
I mean, I was belting out something.
“I said I…...I really miiiss my Chiiiiiicooooooo.”
Personally I wouldn’t march to this song in all honesty.
{STRONG LANGUAGE WARNING, CLICK AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION but this is basically the song that Ros is singing with obvious alterations if you\'re curious!} "talk"
Quit Hollerin' "Why God?", he ain't got shit to do with it.
THROW THE BAIT, CATCH THE SHARK, BLEED THE WATER RED FIFTY WORDS FOR MURDER AND I'M EVERY ONE OF THEM
He slumbers in the muggy, humid forest, his massive body gleaming with a thin layer of sweat despite his lack of movement. Volterra has not slept properly since entering the Rift, unable to fully let go and relax when he knows any manner of Rift-born hellbeast could jump out and attack him at any minute. Vadir acts as his eyes and ears when he does finally succumb to slumber, but she's nowhere near as reliable as her red brother used to be and he's not entirely sure that she wouldn't let him get attacked just for the amusement of it.
As a result, he's tired, ill-tempered and miserable, although he still hides the darker side of his depression from his children. He's strong for them, even when he wants nothing more than to crumble into dust and finally allow himself to mourn Isopia. He wants to allow his grief to consume him but he can't, not when he has so much to do, when he has so many children to care for single-handedly. They are his life now, and he gives himself willingly to their cause - anything is better than allowing himself to dwell upon his lover's death, although unbeknownst to anybody else, he spends many nights with his chin resting upon the golem he'd made in the Mountain's likeness, whispering to it as if it is her.
It is a loud chorus of out of tune singing that lifts him from this particular uncomfortable, sweaty sleep. The titan rouses with a growl of anger, pinning his ears at the noise. It had taken him long enough to drift off, so he is not best pleased to be disturbed. Ready to erupt, Volterra marches angrily towards the source of the sound whilst Vadir floats serenely above him, her own feral gaze fixed on the offending source of the noise.
Yet it isn't a Riftian beast, as he'd thought. It isn't something for him to kill over the simple crime of waking him up, to finally sink his hooves and teeth into until it's nothing more than bloody pulp. "Ros?" The stallion advances on her, finding himself flooded with relief at the sight of the small spark-mare. At least she is one demi-god to have survived, one last iota of Helovia inside this hideous, twisted place. "You're alive." He moves closer, his awkwardness around her since their drunken tryst forgotten - she is a familiar face in a sea of strangers, and that's vastly more important than dwelling on a stupid, alcohol-induced mistake.
“Wha??” I said, my head shooting upwards from where it lay on the ground. And then I had to clamp my eyes shut for a second, cuz the world spun too fast and my whole brain was having trouble keeping up with it.
I shook my head a little, and when I opened my eyes it definitely wasn’t Chico standing over me--his ass was way too huge for it to be Chico, and his eyes were too red, and anyway Chico wasn’t a horse. “Oh,” I said, blinking rapidly. “Volterra.” Which caught me completely off guard, cuz all sense in my head told me that of course he should’ve died too, since I’d seen his literal heart get obliterated. But I knew better already; I’d said it myself once before, the reason why even the end of the world couldn’t do him in. “The Unfuckwithable,” I said, the name coming out easy and cool, almost like a joke.
You're alive.
I smiled then, the in the same slow, easy way I’d said his title. “Ooopsssss,” I said with a slur like tea-kettle steam, and I lowered my head back down on the ground, the world floating around me too whimsical to keep a straight face and a stiff neck. But I was happy; at least we were getting to the meat of the matter. You’re alive, he was accusing me. “Sorry.” I wasn’t even gonna try to refute it; yeh, I was alive when I shouldn’t have been. I was free when I should’ve let those shackles drown me, the same way they drowned his love.
If I’d known Volterra was alive, I would’ve given him this chance myself; to avenge his lady (ladies?) good and proper, to spill the gods’ blood that had failed in protecting the realm he was born in. “Well..shit, man,” I said, blinking rapidly, “I would’ve at least given you a fair fight if I’d known you were comin--but I’m faded as fuck right now an’ I can’t really move, soooo….”
I lay my head straight back, stretching out the longest part of my neck face-up. A perfect for Volterra’s huge fuckin’ hooves to stomp down. “Do your worst, bro,” I said serenely, and I wondered if this poisonous, lovely smoke would take the pain away, or make it burst in thousand different colors so I could at least trip balls on my way out.
"talk"
Quit Hollerin' "Why God?", he ain't got shit to do with it.
THROW THE BAIT, CATCH THE SHARK, BLEED THE WATER RED FIFTY WORDS FOR MURDER AND I'M EVERY ONE OF THEM
For a moment he thinks maybe he should be angry. As he sets eyes on her, there's a traitorous little flash at the back of his mind, in the same locked-away section that he keeps all his thoughts and emotions stashed safely inside. It's the place where he keeps his grief bound and gagged, unable to conquer him until he's good and ready.
It thinks - why wasn't it her?
Why did Aithniel and Isopia have to die, yet Roskuld got to live? Why did his precious Mountain, queen of the earth itself, have to perish in Helovia's name whilst the Spark's child survived to fight another day? It is not fair. Isopia and Aithniel both had children to mourn them and lovers to avenge them - to Volterra's knowledge, Roskuld has neither. It seems like the highest form of injustice that she is here, alive and well, but his precious Isopia is dust upon a desolate Helovian wasteland, and his heart along with her.
The beast has to remind himself that it's not Roskuld's fault that she survived, and the cruel thoughts to the contrary are momentary, swiftly batted away. She is his friend, and she is alive. That's all that matters.
The Unfuckwithable. He smiles, but it holds no humour. The great Indomitable, the warlord who bends the knee to no other, has had everything ripped away from him. Strong as he is, he was not enough to save his beloved Isopia or the innumerable others that were taken. It's refreshing to hear the word, though, to remind him of happier, simpler times. Her sorry bids him to visibly flinch, fearing for a moment that she's read his mind, but he quickly settles and assumes it's mere coincidence.
Then, puzzlement replaces the fractured smile that he wears. "What?" Her prone position on the ground, her words....does she think he's here to kill her? "I'm not here to hurt you, Ros." Then, his eyes narrow. "Have you been at the alcohol again?" Volterra himself has cut back recently, scared to get into the same state he did when he half-shagged the mare in front of him, but it seems that Roskuld herself has no such qualms.
He can't blame her, not really. If it weren't for his children, he too would have sought solace in the bottom of a bottle. Only the knowledge that he has to stay strong for them, that he can't wallow, has kept him from drowning his sorrows in pursuit of blessed oblivion.
in my thoughts i have seen rings of smoke through the trees, & the voices of those who stand looking.
When she and Iskra had screamed at the top of their lungs about how much all of this sucked, it had made Otem feel worlds better, even though it was an incredibly childish and silly thing to do. So as the strained sounds of someone's wails reached her ears, Otem thought that perhaps someone else was trying to relieve their own grief in the way that she and her new friend had. Trotting towards the sound, Otem came to an abrupt halt on the sandy swells of the key. The voice was low and rich sounding. A voice that she had heard speaking to her before her eyes opened for the first time, and before she took her first breath.
Her Father.
What was he doing here?
Otem had to fly to reach this Island. Why on earth would her father go through all the trouble of swimming over?
As the autumn-painted filly skulked forward, wings pinned to her sides to make herself appear less obtrusive, she got her answer. Her Father was standing suspiciously close to a rather stout looking man.
Wait.
WAIT.
That wasn't a man, that was her aunt (no matter how much her mind reflexively wanted to say uncle). Thoughts bubbled inside the ram-horned filly's head as she watched her Father looking down upon the demi-goddess. The demi-goddess who had lived. Part of Otem knew she should feel empathy for her aunt who had lost her parents and siblings and friends too, but looking at Ros in her current state just made Otem feel angry. Why did Isopia have to die, when it could have been Ros? Ros whose back was against the earth apparently asking for death? Gritting her teeth, Otem pressed forward, coughing slightly to make her presence known.
"Oh, hi." She chirped as if she had only just come across the scene. Her face was bright and neutral, a perfect mask to hide the bitterness and resentment she was currently feeling.
Floating Key
