A boy who looks like a volcano, a boy who is named after a volcano, finding a volcano to explore seems rather fortuitous in the grand scheme of things. Save for the Veins, a volcano is the one terrain that Helovia seemed to lack, so imagine the large yearling's surprise and intrigue when he finds one amidst the mists of the newly-discovered West, albeit one that looks like its lava-spitting days are long over. He circles it on powerful feathered wings, his small sense of self-preservation telling him that it's best to stay far away....but that side is at war with his desire to adventure upon its sides, and eventually it's that part of him that emerges victorious from his savage internal battle.
He angles himself down, down, down until he's landing in the depths of the pine forest, and a quick examination of the nearest tree tells him that this forest is deceptively young. That is extremely interesting, as it implies that this land is newer than some of the others within the Rift, a fact which is not lost in Vulkán's vast intelligence. The yearling folds his wings to his sides and wanders through the trees, his tail trailing like a snake on the ground behind him. The pain in his head has ebbed slightly since he began to make headway on his trial, so it's now possible for him to move around without being crippled by the white-hot agony. He knows the relief doesn't tend to last long, though, so it is of vital importance that he explores swiftly, before the torture returns.
A vast black mass rises in front of him, and the colt stops to stare at it. It's a great obsidian pillar, its sides etched with runes of the sort that he's never seen before. "Hmmm..." The boy leans closer, sniffing at the stone as though it is something edible.
in my thoughts i have seen rings of smoke through the trees, & the voices of those who stand looking.
Although Otem is much more socially conscious and capable than her twin or her mother, she is also excellent at manipulating herself to suit those around her. And so, as she lands near her twin, she doesn't offer a hello or really any sort of greeting. She doesn't try and disguise her landing to make it seem more graceful or elegant (not that Vulkán would notice if she did), nor did she offer any pleasantries. Instead she exhaled a puff of breath, folded her wings against her flanks, and tried to see what it was her twin had found so interesting.
"It looks similar to the altar Kaos erected back at home." Otem observed outloud, although likely her brother had already come to this conclusion.
"I wonder if the ruins carved on the side have the same meaning as the others.." Otems burgundy and gold gaze narrowed slightly as she looked up. The ruins were unreadable to her, just as the other set had been to her mother. It was in hebrew, she remember Isopia telling her, a language that her mother did not speak. Another mare had - Yael she was called. Silently Otem wondered if this Yael had made it through the rift, and if she had, if she could read the nearly-faded symbols on the side of this monument as she had with the last.
Despite the pressing circumstances, the unveiled events, the catastrophic ways bedlam reached and carved its place far and wide, the boy went exploring.
There was a notion, in the back of his mind, that he shouldn’t be without his father, Iskra, or some form of protection, but another contortion of his childish endeavors paid absolutely no heed to the dangers pressing along every avenue, column, or path. He didn’t think the shadows would eat him, devour him, swallow him whole and send him straight into the void. He didn’t believe the earth would vanquish him, stuff him into shadows and embers like it’d done to so many others – his sentiments and ambitions were heightened towards discovery, and not into the lowly forms of treachery.
So he bobbed and swayed to a tune, to a hum, curled around his throat, a little warble, a tiny ditty Iskra had started the other day, fluffing out his wings until the feathers shifted in the wind, eyes catching over the bits and pieces of information he could store for later. The land before him was absolutely breathtaking – not at all like the sands, soot, and dunes of the Dragon’s Throat, wide-open, spacious, unwavering, so he inhaled its wondrous scent, and didn’t think about the wicked contortions lurking below each exhale.
Instead, his thoughts wandered to the smells he’d picked up.
One was familiar, but just so, newly caught and kept, tagged with the speculation of sister (Otem – a lot like their mother, he speculated, and presumed she was smart and wise like the Mountain too, full of sagacity and musings). The other was strange and uncertain, but he shrugged, not bothered by this, since there were many he didn’t know or couldn’t place – a symptom of youth. But he had no intention of leaving it in such a way, pressing into the grounds with a heightened sense of adventure, deeper and deeper into the murk and mist, beneath the eyes of the volcano, following their smells like a hound.
When he reached them, the first thing he did was call out, a sign of contentment, a decree of warmth he’d yet to lose in the cold, unfeeling world. “Hello!” He bugled, a throng of wild exuberance, and then trailed after them until he came to Otem’s side, bright and cheery, blinking and smiling up at her as if she were a masterpiece, an oeuvre, a work of art. “Sister!” The notion made him laugh, all delight and incandescence, before swinging his attention to the older lad, who appeared quiet, a brooding sort of figure – but Mauna didn’t mind, illuminated and cast like his father before him. “I’m Mauna! Who are you?”
Finally, his attention wavered to the massive obsidian runes – wrinkling his nose and tilting his head at the strange rocks. He’d never seen ones like that before – they weren’t the massive boulders surrounding other mountains, nor the tiny pebbles or shells he played with on the beach. These were something else entirely, and he was drawn to them, another ignorant moth to the flame, almost touching the closest with his maw. “These are neat! What are they?” He looked to both of the older foals, expecting wisdom and advice, yielding to elders for comfort and guidance.
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.
He knows immediately who it is; everybody else insists on a pointless greeting or small talk when they approach him, or, worse, hide their true emotions behind a queer veil of body language that the inept colt can never hope to penetrate. Not Otem, who skips straight to the point. She understands him, and despite his stunted feels, he appreciates her all the more for it. "I thought the same thing." He'd visited the altar only a handful of times in his short life, but the inscriptions in this slab of onyx look much the same as the ones in the Spectral Marsh. "There was a mare who could decipher them, didn't Mot....Isopia say?" The mention of one's dead mother would send flashes of sorrow through most children, but not Vulkán. He feels nothing but a small hum of sadness as he says the word, and that's more because Isopia would probably have known more about these runes than he could ever hope to. All that lost knowledge is a terrible tragedy.
He is not alone with his sister for long. A call echoes through the forest, and the volcano-boy lifts his head from where he'd been closely eyeballing the runes. He feels a small stab of irritation at having his studies disturbed, but the unfamiliar sensation quickly subsides. In bounces another colt, younger and smaller than the two yearlings but who quickly moves towards Otem with the familiarity of one who has met her before. A more possessive brother might shift to dissuade this stranger from going near his twin, but thankfully Vulkán does not seem to have inherited his father's deep jealousy and so simply scrutinises the interaction with interest. He likes to watch the interactions of others as though they're zoo exhibits - how they always seem to find the perfect line between holding eye contact too long or not long enough, whereas poor Vulkán hates eye contact with a passion and avoids it when possible...or, worse, tries his best to look normal by staring relentlessly and creepily because he thinks that's what he's supposed to do. He looks at how each flick of an ear or twitch of a muscle sends a small unspoken cue between everyone else, whilst he relies soley on the spoken word to procure a meaning.
All other horses, including Otem and this other boy, make social interaction look so easy, so natural. Vulkán wonders if they have to second guess every movement they make, like he does, or if it is just instinct to them. It frustrates him that he's not the same way, that he either stands out like a sore thumb by ignoring social cues or tries his best to impersonate them only to fail miserably.
This internal musing is momentary. He hears the colt say another word - sister - and this makes him cock his head with evident interest. Another sibling? He has plenty, but each one is a welcome addition. The other boy introduces himself as Mauna, and Vulkán realises with a great swell of dread that he's going to have to offer the same courtesy back - always tricky, as he never knows how much information to reveal. "My name is Vulkán." This seems too abrupt, so he quickly searches for something else to add.
He focuses on the colt's introduction, calling Otem sister. This is where the bulky yearling makes the massive, but completely understandable, mistake of assuming that Mauna is a sibling on his father's side. Most of the Rift's current population is a relation of Volterra, and it doesn't cross the lava-boy's mind for a second that Mauna could be a brother on Isopia's side. Why would it? "You are our brother? I am surprised I did not see you during our family gathering in the Portal - I thought Father had ushered through the majority of us." It's said in his usual emotioness monotone, unaware of the grievous assumption he's just made.
Mauna observes that the massive onyx creations are neat, and the yearling automatically shakes his head, taking the words literally. "They are not neat - they are quite untidy, really, but I suppose that is to be expected if they are natural phenomena." He makes the remark in his usual unwavering, unshifting voice, utterly unaware that Mauna was only using a figure of speech and not actually saying that the stones were neat in the proper sense of the word.
in my thoughts i have seen rings of smoke through the trees, & the voices of those who stand looking.
"I wondered the same." Otem replies instantly, her mind a whirl of complex dedications and assumptions. That Vulkan calls her a mare (while techinically correct), leads her to believe that all her twin knows about the ruin-interpreter is her gender. "Her name is - or was - Yael. She studied under mother. I do not know whether she is alive or not. But it would be interesting to hear her thoughts on these particular ruins and their possible connections with the one erected back in Helovia."
Before the autumn-touched girl can say more, a boy bounds towards her. Although internally she wants to tense and clench, to disappear from view or make up some excuse about why Maura cannot be a part of this discussion, she instead extends her wings as well as a smile. Otem is more than proficient at hiding her dark and unsociable side, and as Maura reaches her side, she allows a wing to gently drape over him, welcoming him to her as if they are the oldest of kin. Otem shoots a look towards her twin to suggest that none of this is that difficult (since she assumes he will be watching her and wondering why she has lifted her wing to receive the boy, and why she is smiling down at him).
"Mauna!" She beams down at him as her twin introduces himself. Although the mistake Vulkan makes is a forgivable one, Otem still shakes her head to indicate to her counterpart that he has made a mental mistake somewhere in his deductions. Then again, had Otem not known Mauna's lineage she too would have likely thought he was a son of Volterra. "He is a son of mother and Zekle." Otem clarifies, "Though you are correct when you said Father ushered him through. It just wasn't our Father."
Otem doesn't bother to interject as Vulkan interprets Mauna's statement using the primary definition of the word neat. Often she will if she thinks that he has strayed too much from conventionality, but in this instance she sort of thinks that his confusion is warranted. That, and if Mauna is to really know his sibling, this is certainly part of that. One needs to be precise around Vulkan, if nothing else.
"What brings you here Mauna? Is Iskra with you?" For a brief second as the filly mentions the name of the sparking boy, her heart quickens its pace. Just as quickly it stops though, and she feels a chill prickle through her body, wondering what she will do if her brother says yes.
Mauna, being fresh, new, and wholly unfettered by the touches of chaos (yet - the rest of the world seemed to say with a held breath and frowning features), didn’t expect more abrupt revelations about the world on that particular day – but lo and behold, no sooner had he arrived into a chamber of the unknown, did one more pressing, vital piece of information twist into his skull. “A brother! I have a brother too?” His eyes widened like saucers, big and round, a cardinal red infused with the tender essence of innocence and irreproachability, as he studied Vulkan much more closely. They didn’t look much alike, the mountain lad had to admit, where this growing beast seemed carved for brute force and tenacity, Mauna had been sculpted into…well, he wasn’t sure exactly – but he certainly didn’t have as many feathers as this sibling (right down to his hooves!). Vulkan had clearly been marbled into deep browns, like volcanoes, like the craggy rocks, like the pieces of peaks and summits never touched by anyone (too high, too far, too powerful), and the child was speckled with silver, with earth vibrancy, and the lightest dusting of blue, a signature component of his father and grandmother. For all their differences, however, the boy gave no care or trepidation; he merely considered himself fortunate, surrounded by family, by friends, by kin and comrades. “Wow,” he whispered, more to the wind, to the air, to the leaves, even to the runes, speculating on the wonder of the day as Otem draped her wing over his frame (protected, guarded, secure). “I have a father, mother, uncle, sister, and a brother. I’m so lucky!” The last sentence ended on another radiant smile, pointing straight to the ground, then the sky as his eyes returned to focus on the world around him, on the misunderstandings gliding about the venue.
He opened his mouth to correct his newest sibling, because he didn’t belong to this Volterra (only understood of his existence somewhat – a big, burly beast, much like Vulkan, with a white skull), but to Zekle and a long line of electric, potent souls, however Otem managed the quandary for him. So the little cherub laughed, easygoing and free, fluffing his feathers out to his sides for fun, for a release of energy, brushing them against Otem’s in a playful mannerism, briefly shaking his head at his elder brother. “I did come with my dad and uncle, but it seems that we have different ones!” That was fine by him – nothing to be ashamed about, nothing to be zealous or vicious over; they shared dams but not sires. Sometimes that was the way of the world, and sometimes it wasn’t – but it was all he’d been exposed to, and could easily shrug it off.
There was more confusion as Vulkan expressed his statement, curt, potent, no room for argument, and Mauna tilted his head to the side, pondering where he may have erred. He hadn’t meant about cleanliness, but the cleverness, the intricacy, the interesting way the rocks, the runes, and the stones had been laid out. Before he had a chance to say anything about it though, Otem asked about Iskra, which churned his expression back into more of an effervescent bliss, for the boy adored his uncle, but hadn’t come with him. “Nope!” He popped the P for emphasis, an almost mischievous grin sliding over his lips, chest puffing out, betraying ages of confident, assured lineage. “I came out all by myself.” He nodded too, as if this was the bravest thing he could’ve ever done (and likely it had been since his birth), uttering in a softer tide, in a rippling effect, over the shades and shadows of the trees. “I want mom to be proud of me.”
After, not understanding or realizing the layers (heartache? bitterness?) attached to his latest statement, he extended himself forward, out of Otem’s reach, closer to the obsidian runes and their folded, guarded, heavily veiled secrets. “But why would they be here?” His maw pointed to one, not touching, the ghost of a stroke almost encouraging him to do so, to reach out and see what it felt like, if it was cold and lifeless, or warm and tempting.
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.
He is the son of mother and Zekle. The yearling blinks once, twice. "Oh." For one as usually eloquent as he is, it's quite a surprise to see him left speechless. He doesn't really have any emotions on the subject save for being slightly taken aback at the notion his mother had gone through an entire pregnancy without him noticing, but he supposes that he can be prone to missing the obvious details in his hunt for the bigger picture. Deep inside him, in the part that tries its best to feel the emotions that he knows he should feel, there's a small stab of jealousy. He'd thought he and Otem were special in the fact they were the only children to be born of the Mountain's womb - now, it turns out they're not special at all, that they weren't even her last ever offspring. They're just....numbers.
Thankfully, the stab is just fleeting. The colt is soon back to his usual unflappable self, gazing benignly between Mauna and Otem. The younger foal declares his good fortune in having such a large family, and Vulkán is close to pointing out that he and Otem are even luckier, then, given how many paternal siblings they possess, but for once he manages to bite his tongue. Not because he wants to be polite, but because he's not sure if having many brothers and sisters should be considered lucky. That is a debate for a different day, however, and he continues his stone-faced stare between his sister and his new brother.
Otem asks Mauna's reasons for being here, and Vulkán listens with half an ear. He only interjects when the younger colt states that he wants Isopia to be proud of him. "I do not think the dead are able to feel pride, so that is not possible." Again, he's being far too literal - he does not stop to consider that his words may hurt his siblings, because he's simply not capable of putting together actions with consequences. He does not mean to be callous, yet his inability to stop himself from correcting what he thinks is an erroneous statement means that he often hurts without meaning to.
Finally, the subject turns to something that he can truly join in with, as Mauna muses over why the stones are here. "That is an interesting question. At first I was inclined to believe that they were placed here on purpose, however their haphazard nature makes me conclude that I may have been hasty in assuming that. I am now leaning more towards thinking that they are natural phenomena, and that the symbols have simply been etched into them after their creation. What do you both think?" He's almost excited at the notion of getting into a good debate about the background and meaning behind these stones.
image: naia-art
@Otem ohgod vulkan is such a smart arse I wanna slap him in the face :|
in my thoughts i have seen rings of smoke through the trees, & the voices of those who stand looking.
[YOU'RE BOTH MONSTERS FOR MAKING ME BE THE ONE TO DO THIS :||||| ]
Otem felt a vague stirring of disappointment in her belly. It sat like a wet and cold lump, pressing on her bowels. Was it bad that she wanted to see Iskra again? That although she was surrounded by siblings, she instead wished to have her brothers go away and be replaced by the lightning-boy? Before her thoughts could take her too far away, Otem had the most overwhelming experience of deja vu.
Just as Iskra had told Mauna that they would go and look for his mother, inciting a look of surprise, fear, and I am going to kill you from the filly, so too did Vulkán just as casually imply that their mother was dead, inciting the exactly same looks and feelings from the autumn-child. Though perhaps that wasn't quite right. Otem had expected more tact from Iskra-the same could not be said of her twin. It simply wasn't in his wheel house to understand that glossing over the death of a mother in front of a young sibling was not appropriate. Although given how clever he was, Otem would have thought he would at least have picked up on the fact that Mauna clearly thought Isopia was alive.
The ram-horned filly turned towards her youngest sibling, waiting to see the apprehension dawn across his face.
"Mauna-" Otem began delicately, trying to force her features to be soft and maternal (but failing quite spectacularly). "Our mom was a demi-goddess. You know that right? She was the daughter of the God of the Earth. And because she was his daughter, she had certain responsibilities." The filly's voice had become bizarrely sing-song-y as she tried to piece together the softest version of events that would still be true. "And so when Kaos tried to force everyone through the portal, the Gods tried to stop him. But they couldn't. The last thing they tried to do was make the portal safe for all of us, so that we would come through whole and alive."
Otem could feel tears stinging the backs of her eyes, and she bitterly blinked them away. Even this version of events, no matter how sugar-coated, made Otem's resentment of the Gods and their role in all of this feel all the more weighty. It was their fault that all this had happened, and yet they would be remembered as martyrs for sacrificing themselves at the end. The difference was they deserved to be sacrificed. Aithniel and Isopia did not.
"But even the Gods were too weak. They needed more help. So our mom and her cousin helped the Gods. We all have our magic, and our companions, and our lives because of mom."
Otem's mind replayed the last few moment's of Isopia's life - the way her body seemed to explode into a thousand points of starlight. She was just gone. Her cape and pauldron, the glowing charms she had, Babel and Hubris: they just weren't anymore. Otem didn't even have a body to bury.
She had nothing of Isopia's. None of them did.
Briefly Otem thought about adding, I'd rather have mom than have my magic, but she wasn't sure if that was true. Since coming to the Rift Otem had become powerful. She had been given magical gifts she never thought were attainable. She loved her mother of course ... but her selfishness far outweighed any amounts of altruism, and so the filly kept that false sentiment unsaid. "I'm sorry Mauna.." Otem concluded poorly, her wings slumping slightly from her sides unsure if her youngest sibling would want a hug or not.
08-17-2017, 10:47 PM (This post was last modified: 08-17-2017, 11:19 PM by Mauna.)
While the rest of the world had been anointed with Isopia for years, Mauna had only been granted a few days with her. He’d absorbed them all – remembered her face, her strengths, her irresistible touch of morality. She’d been beautiful. She’d been kind. She’d been brave. She’d been wise. She’d been so many other things intertwined – sometimes a raven, sometimes just the earth – and though he’d only had her for a minute specks of time, a granule of sand, she’d carved her way in and out of his soul. The little mountain considered it a blessing, a conviction, a promise, and didn’t stray, didn’t run, didn’t wander off the beaten path, searching for her, narrowing his eyes to stare into the infinite bliss. He wished, as all youths did, for her to come flying down from the clouds, on wings of satin, on pearls of sagacity, ready to regale them with everything she’d seen in their moments apart. The babe understood little else – had been witness to the flurry of movement, of motion, of chasms and bedlam, but not the root of it, not the effects, not the derailing consequences and horrors – the after that plunged his father into oblivion, that riddled over his uncle’s shoulders, that pulsed and pervaded through each and every heart. He’d never seen death until that day, had no name to describe the feeling of apprehension, the fear curled into his chest, into his gut, sliding along his ribs – but the emptiness, the hollowed bits torn away from him still registered, still lingered, still didn’t make sense. The tiny scion could tilt his head and dream, but so many of those could never become reality.
Otem told him so. Vulkan told him so. Maybe a part of him always recognized her absence as more than fleeting, as more than transitory, and the rest of his little frame couldn’t segment it, couldn’t be certain, couldn’t be sure. He’d seen magic, he’d seen mayhem, and couldn’t muster the difference, the parallels and contrasts, the blinding, horrific variations – because if Isopia could transform into a bird, why couldn’t she also become bits of dust, and return to them, same as before?
But, and here it was, stark, blunt, cutting the threads and webs of lies and deceptions, of specious armaments and dastardly tricks – wouldn’t she have come for them by now?
Wouldn’t she have longed to see her children’s faces? Wouldn’t she have yearned to see what they’d learned, heard their newest tales? He had so many for her, and she hadn’t come, she wasn’t here, she was gone.
It slashed the effervescent smile along his angelic grace. It lacerated the ebullience, the reverence harbored in his blood-red eyes (and why couldn’t they be gold, like hers?). It shorn away the quiet sanctions of his consecrated form, so everything seemed to fall apart, piece by piece, inch by inch, the tenderness, the warmth, shriveled, withered, decayed. He was a fallen oak leaf, still green, lost before the depths of autumn. He was a forgotten lamb, thrown aside when the reaper’s scythe heralded its final refrain. He was dumb, weak, and foolish, for believing the world would send her back to him.
She’s not coming. She can’t ever come.
It drummed through his thoughts as he lowered his eyes to the ground, stared at it instead of his sister, instead of his brother, taking in huge inhales of air to avoid crying. He shook instead, another frond in the wind, swallowing down the rush of tears and ineptitude. Mauna didn’t care about the weakness of Gods, how they’d all come toppling down, how the world had been crushed beneath the weight of deities’ blunders. He was a small boy who wanted his mother back, and no matter how many times he tried to find her, she wasn’t coming. She was never coming.
“How do you know?” He said first to Vulkan, and it came out bitter, it came out harsh, broken shards of anger (emotions he didn’t know he had, sentiments he’d never possessed) – the crimson stare focusing entirely on the bulkier lad. “How do you know she isn’t…” he paused, eyes daring to focus on the darker aspects of the building clouds, always a storm on the horizon. “Up there, watching over us?” The child dared because it was all he had left, rebelled against the forces of knowledge, trembled and quivered in the breeze, desperately trying not to fall apart in front of his family (and now he understood how his sire functioned every damned day, and longed to cry for him too). He didn’t care about the stupid obsidian shards sticking up from the loam any longer; they hardly mattered when his mother was dead and everything was a mess. Instead, while his bottom lip trembled, while tears began to beckon in the corner of his eyes (no matter how hard he tried, they just kept antagonizing, building, a stoked fire of grief and misery), he turned to Otem, matching sorrow for sorrow, indignation for indignation. “Then we’ll be better than the Gods,” he offered, in promise, in oaths, in benedictions he had no right to pledge, no means to convey. “She’d want us to be strong,” he sniffled, locking his jaws together when he couldn’t say anything more. Perhaps they already were, and he was the meek one, the weak one, the child destined for nothing – proffering something he could never become. Maybe their prowess, their potency, was something Isopia never would have craved; he wouldn't know. He'd never been able to ask.
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.
Siren's Summit
