His sister does not really react to his presence, and he blinks slightly in surprise. His ideas about whisking her off to talk are momentarily shelved, and despite his usual obliviousness, he realises that it may be best to leave her alone for now. There's also an element of him not wanting to have to cut out searching for Otem from his routine - that counts as a deviation, and the volcano boy does not react well with those. If he continues to seek her out to talk to her, then he can keep that valuable part of his day.
With his mind made up, he walks away from his sister without a backwards glance. It may look callous or rude to do so, but neither of these things occur to him - he's simply thinking that he will find her another day to have their talk, and that until then he can carry on searching for her as he has done every day up until now. He is about to leave alone when he catches sight of his father, and moves to fall into step behind the older man. It does not escape his notice that he's now tall enough to look his sire in the eye, a sign that he'll probably end up outgrowing the ebony warlord. Normally he'd remark on such a thing regardless of how he might offend his father, but he's too distracted today to be able to do so.
"Father," comes his greeting in his predictably monotone voice. "I will walk with you." He falls into step next to the skull-faced man, and leaves the area by his side.
Father! The voice bids him to turn even as he's about to take his leave now he's sure that there's nothing else likely to happen. It is Vulkán, gangling towards him with his usual inelegance. The boy has grown up well, and his size doesn't escape his sire's eagle eye. It's likely that the colt will grow to be the same size as Isopia, which means he'll be the first of Volterra's children to be able to look down at his esteemed father. This prickles the warlord's pride more than it probably should do, although he's safe in the knowledge that his son doesn't carry himself in a way that makes the most of his great size - the big yearling is awkward in everything he does, as though he's ashamed of being so tall. That's a stark contrast to Volterra with his easy, predatory grace, owning every blade of grass that he stands upon.
He resists the urge to comment on the boy's stride, instead just nodding and allowing his son to fall into step with him. "Ah, Vulkán, yes. I've been meaning to speak with you." He intends to speak to Otem and Vulkán alone in the near future, but reasons that he should prioritise the bay colt for now as he's already bumped into Otem several times, whereas Vulkán has been largely absent. "Meet me here at sundown tomorrow." He knows how organised the bay is, how much he needs specific times - Volterra will have to be careful not to be late else he throw the poor lad's zen completely out of whack.
With his son lumbering along next to him, the warlord takes his leave from this new, eerie place.
The once-prince wasn’t sure how he’d managed to find other gallant, kind, considerate beings gathered near him, because in between his valiant efforts he was still a bitter, rancorous soul – and there they were, proffering their assistance in finding his lost griffin. The lad was incapable of seeing their beliefs, their creeds extended towards him, for he’d always offered his willingly, gave a selfless promise, uttered oaths and convictions to them for the simplest of gestures or the grandest, most conniving of revenge, but never expected it to be granted in return. He wasn’t sure what to do or what to say, at a loss for words, but desperate, so blindingly desperate to have what he’d grasped and yearned and wished for so long – the youth stared at the ground first, listened to their voices, to the collective pleas and shouts, to the bestial outcry of Kisamoa, a beckoning to leave. He couldn’t yield without saying something, without hoping Wessex could point him in a singular direction, that mountains could call for other reasons besides something that used to be home. At the dragon mare’s insistence, he gave another small smile, a little sad, a minute gathering of his thoughts and feelings, fit to burst at the seams. “Thank you,” and the notion went towards Weaver as well (despite their strange ties and connections, perfectly capable of severing one another). His skull turned to Oizys as she started to leave, ushered back into the shadows, nodding at her in turn, calling out on a thread of notes he’d started once with Kiada, and wanted to extend towards all of them in turn. “Be careful.” Then he took a chance to glance out across the void again, looking for a slip of raven feathers, and seeing only the remnants of Kisamoa, Stygian and Tartarean, a piece of devil canvas, stroked with infinite layers (and he wanted to ensure all of them came apart, flayed, broken, destroyed), he and Orsino were just one more set of phantoms lingering away from the dust – back into their own abyss.
08-12-2017, 07:12 PM (This post was last modified: 08-12-2017, 11:39 PM by Iskra.)
Heaven if you sent us down
So we could build a playground you'd be so proud of what we've made
"MEL!" Iskra crows triumphantly as she slips in beside him, a warm breath of honey-scented air following her. Smells more than anything have a way of touching deep into our memories, of transporting us to times passed, and so it is Iskra is back on the heated sands of the Throat, cheerful and care free in his youngest era of boyhood, chasing monsters which were only pretend with his filly friend Melita. It tugs at something in his heart, maybe grief over something forever lost will sink in later, but for now Iskra can only cherish the relief at seeing her familiar face, the happiness of much fonder times. He reaches to sweep her up in a winged hug, laughing boisterously, as if there weren't a malformed devil just feet from them in an utterly alien and hostile realm.
They were swiftly reminded however as the great, monstrous voice barked out. Iskra at once stiffened, as if the words were a crack against his back and not just the vibration of the air around them. He pulled in closer to Melita, whether to serve as her shield or find comfort in her presence wasn't entirely clear.
Volterra offered a nice distraction as his rumbling voice called to him. It was so achingly familiar, bidding the herd to its command under the Sun; Iskra wished it would do the same here, would hold that same authority and confidence. Yet, for what Volterra had to say, it was not with his Sultan's baritone, just the weariness of a man that was as lost and broken as the rest of them. Iskra bright features faltered, confused. Volterra told them to summon him if need be, but from where, and how if they weren't staying together? He said the Throat lived on in them, but as he moved to walk away with his son, it was clear that every last granule had already blown free from his coat, the fire had grown cold in his veins in the absence of the Sun.
Iskra stared out after him, wanted to chase him down and scream, lead us then, if we are what remains, if we are a family forged beneath heat and dust! He didn't however, because he could see it plainly now that the golden glow of his once sultan had dimmed and washed off beneath the Rift's endless downpour - Volterra was without heart. He'd lost it, that precious ability to love wholly and completely, somewhere in Helovia. Like the Wildfire's last burn had scorched it out of Ampere, so the crumbling of the Mountain That Knows had buried and suffocated it from Volterra. He was a heartless shell of a man, going through the daily machinations because his bloodline still needed him, as Iskra had of her, and because he had something fierce to hold between his teeth still; the bitterness of vengeance on his tongue as it slid down his throat and into the gaping hole where his heart once resided. Ampere had filled her hole with liquor because she'd had no one to blame, not really, but Volterra would fill his with blood and the bone marrow of a dismantled and decimated Kaos.
"C'mon, we better listen," Iskra mumbled to Melita as he nudged her beside him, finally tearing his gaze from the Indomitable as he drifted past sight. "Besides, I'm curious!" Iskra stuffed it all behind his smile as he turned to run off with Melita and explore.
he'd trade his guns for love I s k r A but he's caught in the crossfire
08-12-2017, 10:23 PM (This post was last modified: 08-12-2017, 11:12 PM by Melita.)
For the first time in her life, she began to wish for the past – because it’d been perfection, it’d been endless curiosities, it’d been dozing with the sun in her face, the wind in her mane, the eternity of restlessness and bounding forth to inquire, to love, to cherish. They’d explored, they’d laughed, they’d whistled into the air, they’d challenged one another for supremacy in splashing the longest, in dreaming the farthest, in gallivanting across the heights of dunes, the curling, coiling, twisting bouts of the breeze. She’d beamed beneath her mother’s stalwart, gentle gaze, raced beside Clementine’s sweet-smelling frame, and investigated new landforms with her friends. There’d never been any cause for concern, no worries, no anxieties, no apprehensions – and now, that’s all there seemed to be. The weight of the world pressed down between her shoulder blades, wore away the infinite graces of her grin, traced arrows along her chest, so that every hour, something gnawed at her, chewed, smothered, clawed its way amidst her marrow, her ribs, her bones, her entity. She wondered where her beautiful dam was every second of every moment, she tried to keep Clementine safe from the monsters in the crypts, in the catacombs, in the shadows and in the sunlight, and she bristled when chaos continued to ravage, contort, and control an entire region she was wholly unfamiliar with. It burned away at her core, left her gaping, left her listless, left her devoid of what used to be, and could never be again.
The pining returned as Iskra swept her up into a boisterous, ebullient hug (tears clawed just behind her eyes, and she blinked them away, quickly, because it shouldn’t have been painful to enjoy precious time with one’s friends) – she smiled and laughed too, allowed it to echo, to buoy, probably where it didn’t belong. This wasn’t the time or the place to revive play and antics, but lord, how she longed to, if merely to forget the war waging on around them. She felt him stiffen beside her as bedlam howled again, and the mere, trifle diversion was gone again – sudden, another ghost in a series of poignant, haunting memories. It wasn’t fair. None of this was.
We should be back in the sands. Iskra should have his mother back. Otem should have her mother back. Everything should be normal. But they couldn’t. It wasn’t an option anymore.
The honeybee girl didn’t want to listen to the commands of Kaos. The urge to curl her lips and draw back a sneer, some boisterous, bold movement, motion, comment towards the beast bombarded her senses; ferocious, unyielding, fierce – it harked and it coiled, wrapped itself around her heart and dug in. But there was naught more she could do – so the girl thought better of it, swerved her gaze so it filtered on Otem, on Iskra, on Pippigrin, instead of the conniving beast beckoning orders. She wondered if Iskra’s grin hid something deeper then, as he nudged her away, as he shuffled them back into the folds of darkness. Did he want to conquer their new foe too, lurk in the shadows, bide his time, or agree, do as the false God commanded? “Okay,” Melita whispered back, despite the fact that she wanted to do everything but listen (and why – why did Iskra do as he said, when that beast had been the one to destroy his mother?). She bit the inquiries back, smothered everything down below, into her pockets of stones and forbearance, funneled and followed, traipsing into throngs of chaos, and remembered a brighter world where they didn’t have to plot, didn’t have to scheme, didn’t have to foil elaborate ruses – when they’d been children, allowed moments to grow, to thrive, to blossom.
08-12-2017, 11:37 PM (This post was last modified: 08-12-2017, 11:38 PM by Iskra.)
Heaven if you sent us down
So we could build a playground you'd be so proud of what we've made
As she agreed and they started to move away, Iskra leaned in closer to her, grateful for her company and the easy way they got along. "Thanks," he said, not caring to elaborate because it'd be awkward on his lips, fumbling on his tongue to try to express everything he felt. To make sure she didn't ask though, he went on, changing subjects.
"He scares me," Iskra admitted, and though it was not a hard thing to say, there was a visible aura of defeat to Iskra when he did. His shoulders looked a bit slumped, his wings loose instead of tight, his neck curved a bit defensively and his gaze stared down, dulled. It was an appearance he'd worn since arrival at the Rift, when he wasn't trying to pretend everything was okay anyway. "He's too powerful to defy, or even ignore... so what else is there to do but listen? Even the leaders from before have no power here... we can't even get ourselves back into herds, back somewhere safe."
Iskra was mindful that he was suddenly going on a bit too much, so he quieted abruptly and looked away. Melita was strong, but she was not unbreakable, and she was not without loss and confusion either. He had no right to burden her with his grievances. "Sorry," he mumbled, turning to her with a newly slapped on smile.
"Exploring should be interesting though, so where do you wanna go first!?"
he'd trade his guns for love I s k r A but he's caught in the crossfire
Iskra’s divulgence gnarled its way through her ears, burrowing into her sentiments. She knew she should be fearful too (and she had been, watching the world cave in around her, witnessing more and more warriors give their lives for nothing, for nothing at all, standing there in the mayhem), but the ferocity grew inside her. It was partially for him, for her mother, for her sister, and for everyone else touched and scorned by this insatiable monster. Why should he be granted the chance to live on and on, commanding them, defiling them, pushing them off into treacherous worlds, simply because he could? It fueled her, incensed her, rankled all the sweetness, the warmth, away from her body and soul. So she couldn’t help but ask him, question, note the air of revenge, of rebellion, of justice for the glorious Ampere – who deserved far more than to go up in smoke and ash. “But don’t you want to fight back? Don’t you want to punish him for what he’s done?” It came on a whisper, eyes sweeping over his, understanding fear, but not wishing to drown in it. “I’m scared for what he’ll do next.” She saw his point, however, for there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, shields and swords held at close range, ineffectual, feeble, in the wake of so much terror and power. “So we’re stuck following his orders.” This notion elicited a sigh, a grumble, the slight rankle of a growl, Sila responding with a bolt of electricity over her spine.
He quieted again though, easygoing Iskra, never wishing to plague or burden others, and she shook her head at his apology; it’d been entirely unnecessary. “Don’t be. Everything will be all right.” Then little Melita smiled, bore the widest, silliest grin she could, hoping to alleviate the shroud, the veil, of uncertainty chasing after all of them. When the subject changed, to exploring, as if it wasn’t one more creation of chaos tethering their souls, she elaborated on their choices (like they had any). “How about a forest?” Then, cheeky and defiant all over again, a role she kept slipping into with little difficulty, she leaped and bounded into the abyss, plunging right back into mayhem’s reaches, thrown straight into Kaos’ bidding.
No one seemed that eager to press on into the mist. Erthë did not blame them, she was wary too of what might lay beyond those fog-laden hills and vales she could so barely make out before the whiteness took over and clouded the view. Small, woolen ears seemed fixed in a backwards, irritable expression as she listened to the babble around her, her own attention focused more on Kaos than any of the others that milled about. There were familiar faces there, revealing the presence of ones she knew and loved, but beyond a twinge of relief and a slight lessening of her burden of grief at the sight of them, the little mare did not acknowledge them. Even Tilney, when the good doctor approached and spoke to her, did not get more than a nod and a faint smile.
There would be time for talking later, when Kaos was gone, when the most immediate danger had passed and it was time to settle down and decide what to do with this place, and with herself, and with the rage and grief that still burned like a cold flame in her heart.
Kisamoa screamed then, like a child throwing a tantrum, and the pale mare found herself flinching away from the self-proclaimed god, fear and loathing twisting her features as she glared back at him. Without so much as a word, she turned and walked off, not towards the new vistas but back south to the familiar regions around the Portal. It was a small rebellion, she knew, but a rebellion none the less. Disobedience, dereliction of duty, defiance... call it what you will, she was not going to follow orders as if she was his creature to lord over and command.
She was not. Erthë's love went to the pale moon and the deep darkness of midnight, to the coiling mist and the four winds, her allegiance was to a dead goddess and a dead world, and the brave dead who had given up their lives to defend it. If Kaos wanted anything besides hatred from her he would have to repay her a hundred times over for what he had taken, and it still would not be enough. She would not forget, would not forgive, no matter how pretty he made this place or how well he treated the cowards and traitors who bent their wills to his.
Oh, Erthë would explore this world, and she would learn, and she would use all of what she discovered against him. But it would all be in her own time. And right now, all she wanted was to be gone from this place, before she lost control and spoke her true mind and brought more death down upon her kin.
So she left.
Right or wrong, I can hardly tell
I'm on the wrong side of heaven and the righteous side of hell
Green Labyrinth
