07-29-2017, 08:27 PM (This post was last modified: 07-29-2017, 08:30 PM by Rift Presence.)
There existed only lone, broken, forgotten spires of barren rock in the midst of this angry, writhing ocean. They stood as a reminder of what had been stolen from the Rift. Tall, dark spires jutting from surging seas; reaching for their heart—lost in a foreign land, ripped from its magical chest.
And these lone anchors were locked in a war. A war to hold the lands of the Southern Sea together. To anchor them in the Rift; keeping them from going floating into the endless oblivion between worlds.
It was as it was before Vjanta came. Wild, terrible, uncontrollable power ripping itself apart. This was shown by the littered body parts of a Giant Drifter. The great, gentle beast had the misfortune of drifting along the wrong ocean current into the midst of the Isle’s cyclone.
Its great spine snapped, underwater sail being torn and shredded as dark blood seeped into the seas’ uncurbed rage.
A deafening, high-pitched screech (almost metallic sounding) reverberated from beneath the waves and into the air. A Baleano, thrilled by the scent of blood in the water, rose its massive and glowing body from the depths beneath the Isles. Its ridged, tentacle-ed back undulated from the seas; long and sharp teeth open in his hungry jaws.
But not even the sea’s predator was safe from the chaotic loss of the heart. A great wave rose from the tempestuous ocean, slamming its long body into the lone pillar remains of the Isles.
The screech grew in intensity and frequency, sounding as if it came from a thousands throats instead of one, giant one. The Baleano’s long, spiked body drug along the ocean floor, ripping free and crushing capitocoral and sea creatures alike. The living rocks sent out their memories, clouding the relentless sea with mournful tales of wasted magic and senseless deaths.
But then—then something happened.
Perhaps it was the waste of magical life; or the sudden flooding of magic into the waters. Perhaps it was a last stand of the pillars as beacons of the South’s heart.
Whatever the reason, the seas suddenly laid flat. The water spouts fell from the skies, splattering into the sea with unceremonious abruptness.
And a soft, glowing sunlight pulsed in the center of the pillars. A serene light that beckoned any and all who saw it. It coaxed and lured and drew any living souls towards it: warming and promising, welcoming.
It short, it was opposite anything the Rift had given, yet.
Ilunga struggled against the wild torrents , just barely safe from the hungry pull of the maelstrom, and as she watched the struggle of the baleano tears streamed unashamedly down her cheeks. Though she clutched the white spear against her chest in fear and awe of the mighty beast, in that moment she forgot all about being a proud warrior, forgot all that she had become and earned and given up in order to hold the izala. Again she was a mere filly, helpless in the face of the awesome powers of nature, a child powerless to do anything as the greatest enemy of her kind was torn to pieces before her eyes, shredded into naught but meat by the raging waters.
She felt the lament of the rocks, more than she heard them, and as if to respond her own body ached and pulsated with the grief, the senseless futility of the deaths around her. Ilunga did nothing to stifle or conceal her tears, for to do anything but weep would have been an insult to the might of the beings that had died so needlessly, and her kin had always striven to be as one with the sea and its creatures - for indeed, they were its children and everything that floated, swam or drifted through the blue expanse were kin, and siblings, and of the same origins. Though they warred with the great sharks and fed upon small fish and prawn and clams as much as upon seaweeds and kelp, they never took more than they needed, and never shed blood if it could be avoided.
Ilunga cried even as the ocean roared, but when it suddenly stilled the hippocamp gasped and watched in amazement as light began to pour down upon the remnants of the Riptide Isles, a light so bright and clear and pure that she had to look away, blinking and half blinded.
Again she felt it, the call, the summons... and warily the daughter of wind and sea responded, scales glittering in hues of gold and lavender as she swam closer to the light. Suspicion was live within her, all senses alert and ready to bring her away in a flurry if anything untoward were to occur. Was it a trap? It would not be the first time, the Rift was a dangerous place after all.
It was as though someone had heard her thoughts and grated her wish. Erthë gaped at the light that poured down from the sky, so stunned at the sight of the ocean stilling that for a long moment she could only stand there and stare. But when the call reached her she acted without thinking and threw herself off the cliff and took flight, the wind damp and salty against her wet skin but oh, so sweet. As always, flying filled her with a joy and lightness of spirit that nothing else could give, but more than the vast horizon or the breath of air under her wings, it was the light that brought a smile to her lips, the first expression of happiness she had showed ever since she awoke on this side of the portal.
Flying on vast, white wings, the little mare made her way across the sea and circled the vast area of sharp, jagged rock beneath her, glittering and moist and bathed by that glorious, beautiful sunlight. The sight was so beautiful that it made her whole body ache as if in pain, but it was a sweet pain, a melancholy wistfulness and a deeply seated regret, for Erthë was sure this would not last. So far the Rift had brought her nothing but pain and sorrow and disappointment; it was a dark and dangerous place, twisted and tainted and foul, and she hated it with almost as much ferocity as she hated its new god.
But now, also for the first time, the young mare found a sliver of hope in the darkness, brought on by this ray of light. This world would not, could not ever become her home in the way Helovia and the World's Edge had been, but perhaps, maybe, if there was beauty to balance out all the ugliness, she might be able to survive here, after all.
Curiously, but rather distrustful of this sweet mirage, Erthë angled her wings and banked towards the pillar of light, daring to see what would happen if she flew inside it. It had been so very long since she had felt the warmth of sun upon her skin... would that she could feel it again, if only one more time.
Right or wrong, I can hardly tell
I'm on the wrong side of heaven and the righteous side of hell
even after the darkest of nights, dawn comes again
Explore, and learn.
The dragonmare didn't feel like obeying a 'god' as wicked and cruel as Kaos, but at the same time, she was as trapped here as everyone else, and she intended on living (even if she was only coping with this transition through blatantly ignoring the swell of grief and despair that kept trying to rise up within her).
The season was apparently a damp one. Amaris and Dramyrth lingered on the ground as the rains and winds picked up. They didn't know exactly where they were - how could they, the Rift seemed to be an amalgamation of normal and abnormal, of faux safety and certain uncertainty.
There was an ocean nearby, that much the dragonmare knew. At first she thought it to be the sound of the waves in the storm pounding against the rocky bases of the Isles, but as the storm went on, she learned it was something else entirely.
Forced to the skies, dodging the spouts of water that rose with her, she struggled with her dragonic wings against the winds and water that pulled her in many different directions.
But as swiftly as the wild weather forced she and her dragon into the air, it ceased, and she was left pounding her wings to hover above the scene that was unfolding below.
She was ignorant to the hippocamp who dwelled beneath the seas, and the somewhat familiar pale fae who flew nearby, her attention pulled instead to the scene that reminded her most of home than anything else had since arriving in this strange land.
It looks like a dawn, she commented, though her bonded did not respond, did not indicate whether he heard - evidently their bond was still mostly silent.
The brightness hurt her eyes, but she stared at it anyway, unable to stifle the hope that rose within her - could this be a portal like the one that had carried them here, a portal back to the realm of Helovia, to the familiar world, to home?
Even though she knew it could never be true, she knew it wasn't impossible, she could not honestly deny that she hoped anyway.
Our palaver takes us down that sodden beach. Along the way, we find birds – or rather – avian fiends with downy arms; two sets each. There are twelve of those mutated critters; their blue/grey frames are half the size of a coconut, but their voices rang a haunting, baritone anthem that went deeper than what should be biologically possible. We pass beside their huddle, a shimmering mass of ultramarine bodies spinning in tight circles, with their mini cyclone gravitating rhythmically across the riptide current.
Their voices are unexpectedly joined by another; this one is far off, but tis a prolonged uproar which demands my attention. Anxious plumes extend from their sweltered harbor. Unlike the mournful cries of those avian fowl – this one is fierce, mayhaps even tinged with grief and/or pain. Responsively, a potent mix of disruptive chemicals flies into my system. Concealed behind these damp lips, ivory molars grind anxiously in the back of my mouth; agitation continues to drum the pace of my heart upward. Golden optics are forced to narrow somberly beneath the weight of my brow.
As the roar dies away; a new occurrence captures its audience. Those constant pillars of cycling water start to droop; leaning sideways until they fall from their ascended height with a crash/splash into their frothy originator! The sky...nar, the sea itself...is suddenly awash with an unexplainable, yellowish light. The illumination casts a faint twilight across the brackish water and somehow lessens the dull monotone around us. Unexpected desire rises from the ashes of imbued excitement...both of which flood inside these pulsing veins, feeding me renewed vigor. Noticeably brightening, my comment is easy, "the storm has eased."
Off to our left, a pale figure soars into view, -though far larger than the grieving birds, the silhouette is dwarfish; a child mayhaps?- obviously part of our species. Honeyed primaries flex, expressing their growing desire to be airborne. "Look there,” though this heart races and concern tints my expression...there is an unmistakable shade of beguilement which becomes outstandingly apparent the longer we stand and gawk, "a child?" That metallic choker throbs warmly, as if sensing my restless...failing logic. The brash suggestion which follows is born from that bewitching aura, “come with me?” there is a hint of desperation spoken in the undertone of said question, but for the moment...I don't recognize it.
Ingrid stood on the sandy shore and stared out over the ocean. She could see a strange light coming from a group of nearby islands that rose out of the sea, but she didn't give a flying fuck. No, her eyes were trained on a flying horse: Amaris. There was no doubt about it. The dragonmare appeared to be stalling over the water, the golden speck of her companion buzzed around her. Ingrid was suddenly filled with a childlike need to talk to her old friend, and the sea was fairly calm at the moment.
Fuck it. I'll swim, she decided, wading into the water.
The surf was cold, swirling around her legs and seeping through her coat. She shuddered, but kicked forward anyway into the open ocean. Suddenly, she felt a strange deja-vu. Hadn't she swum to a group similar islands before, only to find Amaris and Yael already there along with a talking parrot one time? That archipelago had looked just like this one, sans the strange light. Her curiosity grew, and she kicked faster, hoping to make some headway while Amaris was staying more or less in one place. She knew that once the older mare chose to dive towards the islands, it would be hard to keep of her. Ingrid's breath was coming in gasps now and she could feel her muscles straining, but she didn't think it would be long now before she made it to shore.
V O L T E R R A
HE SAYS "OH BABY GIRL, DON'T GET CUT ON MY EDGES
I'M THE KING OF EVERYTHING AND MY TONGUE IS A WEAPON"
The wind howls around him, a tempest that he has to fight against; he does so admirably, with the indomitable spirit that embodies everything about him. The Isles, the one last bastion of familiarity from Helovia, are dying, or so it seems. Volterra knows now that, despite his great strength, he is powerless to stop things he loves from dying. Even he cannot rage against the end of life itself, so he's in two minds whether to attend the Isles' funeral or not. What is there to gain from seeing the final fragment of Helovia sucked into the depths?
Despite his misgivings, he's there among the crowd when the water-devils settle themselves down, and when the light begins to glow from the depths of the pillars. For a moment there's a raw, gaping hole of hope in his chest - the Isles are part of Helovia, after all, so what if the key to returning there lives in these watery depths? Perhaps a portal will open, allowing him to return home, allowing him to rebuild in a land that is familiar, where he understands the flora and fauna instead of being startled by it. Perhaps this is the day when the Rift nightmare is finally over.
A foolish thought, he realises. He dismisses it with a snort, and trains his eyes towards the light even as his limbs grow weary with fighting against the tide. Swimming has never been his strong suit, and there's a distinct frisson of fear in his heart as he contemplates the very realistic idea of finally running out of fight, succumbing to the sodden grave beneath him where his bones will rest for eternity upon the sea bed. No, he tells himself - this is not how he dies. Not at Kisamoa's foul hands, not today, not when there's still so much for him to accomplish.
So he fights against the torrent, blowing heavily from his nostrils but never once allowing his head to duck beneath the waves; he struggles through the crowd, determination sizzling through him as he waits to see what transpires. .
Her legs beat powerfully through the water, propelling her forwards at speed. The muscles beneath her stone grey coat are screaming for mercy as she wrestles against the tides, and her eyes roll in her head with the force of her concentration. Ker wheels above her, screeching intermittently as she sends tendrils of anxiety down their bond and into the gargoyle's head; their mental link, sick as it can sometimes be since the move to the Rift, is crystal clear today.
It is the light between the distant pillars that draws her, and she fights against the waves with as much force as she can muster. It is not a particularly enjoyable task, but Oizys is not the sort of girl to want to miss out on anything that Bullshitamoa might wish to thrust upon them. Not because she trusts him, no - because of the exact opposite reason, because she doesn't believe a word that comes out of his lying mouth. At first glance this doesn't seem like his doing, but Oizys is willing to bet that he's got a barnacle-encrusted hand in here somewhere. Why else would the Isles be suddenly calm, and the pillars glowing with an otherworldly light?
The gargoyle treads water, her breathing haggard as she fights to stay afloat. She wishes she'd had the foresight to drink blood from a sea creature so she could have transformed into it, but collecting new blood has been low down her list of priorities since arriving here. The Rift is a wealth of new transformation possibilities, but she's been more focused on finding a stable food source and water that isn't neon green.
Whilst others must swim in order to reach their destination, Vulkán is blessed with wings. He can soar above the raging tides beneath him whilst his fellow horses struggle against the rampaging waters, although he does not tend to feel such things as arrogance so it does not cross his mind to brag about his good fortune. He's not exactly sure why he's here; he has been exploring off and on, but it is low priority compared to his hellbent desire to rid himself of the burning pain inside his head. Doing so involves completing the tasks set to him by the eyes inside his mind, so everywhere he goes is with a view to solving the conundrum that is causing him so much agony.
Today is different, though. Today, there is something....happening. The yearling flies across the waves with consumate ease, courtesy of the thick muscles that anchor his wings to his body. His hybrid tail swings around behind him, acting as a rudder to control the movements of his massive frame as it twists through the air. The light in the pillars ahead of him draws him like a moth to a flame; in his small repertoire of stunted emotions, curiosity is ranked quite highly, whereas fear is ranked very low down. Vulkán does not contemplate for a second that something bad could be about to happen, regardless of the fact that the Rift killed his mother in front of his very eyes.
Besides, everything looks too calm to be dangerous. The seas have quietened, the roiling tempest calmed by whatever otherwordly power commands it, and the yearling continues his slow circling with a glow of interest in his lava-hued eyes.
The light, it grew with each approaching body. With each living soul, the pillars seemed to grow, to thicken into broader, wider isles. Until, with a gradual slowness, the spot of sunlight grew until it bathed the rocks and creatures around it.
How long had it been since sunlight, true sunlight and not the scalding burn of Scorch, had brushed these lands? And now the Isles—they appeared to be restored. Gone was the tempestuous sea. Gone was the dark sickness and eerie, neon light that lurked in the shadows.
And at its center was a great and beautiful tigress. Her burnished orange coat gleamed; the dark stripes of her pelt shone with an iridescence that sprouted colorful plants and insects wherever it touched the earth.
All three of her yellow eyes moved with careful precision as she stood in the center. Giant paws dug into the edge of the dark waters; and from her digging claws sprouted streaks of light that illuminated the water. And this lightened water spread, chasing away the sickness of the sea.
It gathered the pieces of the Great Drifter and stitched them together, sending the gentle giant into safer currents. It took the Baleano and shoved it back into the depths where it belonged.
The light water also raced towards the first living soul to heed her light’s summons: Illunga. It formed a perfect, exact circle over her chest before solidifying into a tiger’s eye gemstone.
This all was done with exacting care by Vjanta. A small, cheshire-like smile curved up the corners of her whiskered face. The black lining around her eyes crinkled slightly as she watched the health and life returned to her lands. A deep purr rumbled from her lovely breast as songs and calls rang brightly from her Isles once more.
The vision ceased abruptly, the skies ripping apart the longing scene with a terrible, thick bolt of lightning that struck Vjanta’s apparition straight in her heart.
A haunting scream, which sounded as much in the mind as it did in the ears, ripped from her throat, “NO!”
—and then she was gone. The only remnant of her apparition is the tigers eye at the sea mare’s neck, the glow slowly dying. But it cried for the dead goddess, salty tears continually leaking from its surface.
Riptide Isles
