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Home » Search » Roster » Whitepages » Records » FAQ » Guidebook
I'm not okay
Open Uwaritace 
Currently championing:

Player is absent until

And in the sea that's painted black
Creatures lurk below the deck
But you're my queen and I'm a lionheart
"Hey, Iso," you begin.

It sounds, for all intents and purposes, like the beginning of any conversation your have had with Isopia.

But, ya know, in just a few key ways, it's not.

The tree is not Isopia. It lacks her curiosity, her endless thirst for knowledge. It cannot spread a wing over your back, or go with you on adventures. It doesn't even look like her. It's barely brown anymore; black ash curls up its side like ash. It is old and rotted, not young and full of life; it is still and speechless, not inquisitive and alert. It doesn't have her infrequent, beautiful smile. The tree is dead.

That's all it has in common with Isopia. They're both very dead.

You shuffle in the dead earth (dead like her), your hooves kicking up clouds of ash. "It's been a few days now. Maybe more. Still keep thinking I'll wake up an' this'll all be just a bad dream." Your eyes remain studiously fixed on the tangled roots. The boughs above block out much of the rain, but one insistent drop falls, tink, tink!, on your metal wing. The sound is amplified in the silence, grating and painful on your delicate ears.

You don't move.

"A lot's changed already," Your voice is steady, heavy, wet as your skin. "I got a tattoo, I guess - a whale. You'd like it. It reminds me of-" of us, of that day, of you. You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. That day is too near, that memory too cruel - once it was a treasured prize, a serenade of your youth, but now the notes are cacophonous, empty, each one a sharp slap in the face, a reminder that you were not enough.

Tink, tink!

A moment passes - two - before you speak again, still addressing the roots of the tree. "It matches Mauna's. The one of his face. His is better though. Tt makes him look so grown up. He's growin' so fast, Iso - he's already nearly as big as me - an' you'd be so proud of him, I know you would, he's so curious an' sweet an' brave, our Little Mountain.

"I want him to keep being brave. But the world is scary, an' I don't- I can't protect him. Not all by myself."

Pain, flashing, a flare up of that constant ache that sits in your stomach, gnaws at your insides. Sunbeam eyes close, trying to keep back the tears. You bite your lower lip, hard. "It hurts so much, Iso," you breathe. Don't cry, don't cry, don'tcry.

Tink, tink!

The tree doesn't blink an eye. It doesn't have eyes. It's a tree.

In an instant your sorrow contorts into fury. You inhale sharply, suddenly, sucking in your cheeks and tensing up your lungs, before shoving the air back out: "FUUUUUCK!" It's a bellow, a scream, a moan and a cry - and this time it's addressed at the tree itself. You turn bloodshot eyes to the innocent behemoth, your face a twisted glare, wrath and rage in the tense strings of your body. Your figure is a bowstring, taut enough to snap.

"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?" you demand of the tree, your voice heavy with rage. That you could just leave us?! That we'd be grateful for the ABANDONMENT? THAT YOU COULD JUST FUCKING DIE AND WE'D ALL GO ON LIVING LIKE IT WAS NOTHING?" Your throat is raw and red from screaming, your voice hoarse - but you have never been a short-winded fellow, and you have more to say. "What about your children? What about Mauna? WHAT ABOUT ME?"

Tink, tink- THONK!

The tree doesn't so much as quiver when you throw your weight against it, slamming your shoulder against its ancient bulk, kicking and biting and lashing out in every sense, like a petulant child. Why, Zero? Why are you assaulting the tree? Grow the fuck up, kid. Life sucks and then you die - Isopia just found a shortcut out of the sucking part.

You don't stop. Again you slam yourself into the tree, each thud of your body punctuated with another strangled scream. "WE. NEEDED. YOU. AND. YOU. JUST. FUCKING. DIED!"

Anger is a bright fire, but it's a short-burning fuel. Sooner than later you find yourself fading, and without really realizing it you're on your knees, your wings and shoulder bruised, your muscles aching, your breath coming in ragged, unsteady heaves. Salt runs like rivers down your cheeks (when did you start crying? when did you stop?). You reach out your tongue to lick it off and taste the copper of blood.

Eventually your breathing steadies (though the pain in your bones, as ever, remains). Rolling onto you back, you sigh, your swollen eyes gazing up into the branches above. A drop of water falls on your belly; another lands on your splayed wing. An improbable leaf, heavy with moisture, falls from above. It spirals and somersaults, and you track it in its dance, following its descent from the canopy down, down, to where it lands atop your hammering heart. Likely swept here by a storm wind, the little piece of life nevertheless lifts your bedraggled spirits. Is it a message from Isopia, an apology, a promise, from wherever her spirit now flies?

Isopia once told you she didn't believe in spirits. How ironic, then, that you should be searching for hers now.

"I'm trying," you whisper to the damp leaf, your breath making it flutter against your skin. "I'm trying so hard, but I'm so tired an'- an' I dunno what to do. Mauna, he still thinks you're comin' home. How do I tell him his Ma is dead?" Dead as mine- but that's a problem for another day, an even greater absence than that left by Isopia. "I dunno how to do this by myeslf, Iso- you were 'sposed to be here to help me."

Your head falls back among the roots. You sigh.

"I miss you, Isopia. I keep sayin' everything's okay, but it's not, is it? Nothing's okay anymore. Mauna's not okay. Sparky's not okay.

"I'm not okay."

image | coding
Currently championing:
He wouldn't call it doubts. He wasn't a creature made from doubts, guilt and shame—he was the bastard child of corruption, power and greed, death and lost futures. He was an amalgam of chaos, of, in some ways, pure sin—the fall of something beautiful, all the way up from the once-pristine heavens to the mud-stained floor.

He represented everything that was wrong with this world. He wasn't heartless, but it was stitched together from four different creatures, deities in their own rights, but nothing quite so fancy as gods. In truth, they had been little more than beings, just like any other, but they had possessed an unprecedented strength of character. They had navigated the pure power flows of the Rift, and had embraced it without coming apart into a thousand tiny pieces.

But they hadn't been strong enough. Their minds had turned to darkness, their morals to ashes.

And in the end, they had died, but the devastating powers of the Rift would not be denied. Their bodies, cut into a myriad of pieces, had crawled under Caevoc's cloak, like seeking like. And thus, Kaos had been born.

He had some of their memories, and some of their knowledge. He had all of them inside the shifting shell of his body. He had all their wants and needs and all their fury.

He had his own furies, too. How could he not? In their memories, he had lived their last moments—he had seen what they had seen, had felt them die, and had known that barely anyone had spoken out against the mindless slaughter.

His one priority had been to bring life back to the Rift. He had used cunning and stealth, had made himself a foothold, and had his plans laid out—but he had been too slow. He had kept on feeling the Rift fade. He'd had no other choice.

But that's where the "doubts" came in. He watched them. The powers of Caevoc cloaked him, and allowed him to walk among them. And it was what he saw that made him doubt, that perhaps he had gone about this in the wrong way. They had needed the whip to go through the Portal, and he had few qualms about taking their lives, but now that they were here, he did not need their anger. He didn't need them to fear him.

He needed them to like it here.

He needed them to want to stay.

It was uncomfortable to watch, not because of the rain, but because of the scent of his emotions as he talked, then screamed, at the tree. It was rich and potent and full of desperation and life, and Kisamoa couldn't do anything about it. He could, theoretically, just snuff his life out, and leave nothing but a black stain on Uwaritace's trunk, but it was the direct opposite of his new realizations. Killing Zèklè would endear him to absolutely no one.

The irony of it was that Kisamoa knew Isopia had spoken out against mindlessly murdering one of his ancestors, but he hadn't had any choice in the matter. She had thrown her lot in with the Gods, and they hadn't been strong enough to stop him.

If only they hadn't tried...

Zèklè finally fell to the ground, and laid there. Kisamoa pulled the shroud from himself, and stepped under Her great boughs to the wail of the Mourning Flowers. Rain matted his oily fur, and made the strange lights glisten and bloom over him. He left black prints where he had stepped, not one like the other.

"Zèklè," he said through the rain, a few of his teeth growing too long and making the name come out a little mangled. In spite of it, his voice was as gentle as it could be, when it came from a creature such as he. He paused, as if unsure of what to say. He'd been related to Ampere, hadn't he? "For what it is worth, which I doubt is much, I am sorry," the tall, shadowy thing said, trying his hand at sincerity again.

He wasn't sure how he felt about it, but he had to try.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
Currently championing:

Player is absent until

And in the sea that's painted black
Creatures lurk below the deck
But you're my queen and I'm a lionheart
How long do you lie there, on the ground, alone, in the presence of nothing but your heartache and the tree? Your soul aching and your tears bleeding onto the soft, dead ground, your breath rising and falling in gentle heaves? How long are you alone, just you and the tree and the leaf that isn't Iso's spirit, you know it isn't, but you really would very much like it to be - so to you, right now, it is.

How much time do you get to process?

No time, as it turns out. No time at all. Literally. You don't get to be alone - hell, you weren't even alone to begin with, because fuck personal space, apparently. First fatherhood, then single fatherhood, and - now that Mauna is big enough to be left, occasionally, to his own devices - there's the eyes, the voices, the ceaseless presence of this shithole. Someone is always watching, waiting, an uninvited witness to your thrashing pain who stands behind a veneer of silence and lets you make a fool of yourself, and you've mostly learned to live with it. You ignore the staring and the breathing and the laughter, you tolerate the weird light and the strange plants and the towering, monstrous beasts that you may once have found fascinating, inspiring, but can now only stare at, blandly, blank. You've managed to roll with the bizarreness that is this world for this long.

Guess it's about time for things to be shaken up.

You wish you could lie there for forever - but if wishes were horses the world would be vastly overpopulated and everything would stink of horseshit. Or something. You don't remember the exact words now; they're eluding you, drowned out by the telltale sound of Mourning Flowers as thick hooves crush them underfoot. One ear flicks casually toward the sound, a small piece of your mind rolling through names and possibilities. Mauna is the obvious answer, but the footsteps are too heavy for your innocent son. Iskra, maybe? No- it doesn't smell like him, and besides, you know his gait almost as well as your own. This is a stranger, or a near stranger.

Or maybe a dream - because part of you, that cruel and stupid part, hopes, prays, that maybe it's her. That maybe she's the one heralding the call of the flowers, eliciting their miserable cry, her cloven feet pressing perfect hearts into the ashes. He can picture a trail of plants sprouting behind her, life rising from death. Is the agony of your heart, the weight of his pain, enough to summon Isopia here?

Spoiler alert: it's not.

Oh, you know it's not Isopia, that it couldn't possibly be Isopia, that it will never, never, no matter how deeply your foolish heart may wish it, ever be Isopia. You know it before it comes into focus, a looming, dark figure at the periphery of your vision, glittering with unnatural light and reeking of rain and putrid magic; but still you hold onto that idiot's hope, because what else do you have? You don't turn to look at it - why bother? - instead opting to stare intently at your leaf, watching with a strangely intense focus as it rises and falls against your chest, fluttering in time with your escalating heartbeat. You can feel your pulse racing (why?), your skin growing damp with sweat (you know why), your ears ringing with the deafening sound of the mourning flowers' cry and the surge of your blood and the deafening, horrible howl of knowledge (no, no, you're wrong, no, can't be, no, no), because there, at the edge of your vision, at the border of your solitude (are you fucking shitting me right now?)-

"Kaos," you reply with surprising evenness, your voice almost pleasant, almost conversational, almost normal -

- because what the fuck else are you supposed to say to the genocidal demigod who slaughtered your sisters, best friend, mother, and goodness knows who else, right before your eyes?

Your sunbeam eyes remain trained on the leaf, watching it rise - and fall - and rise - and fall. You try to count the veins, to map the shape of it with your gaze, to memorize the exact shade of green it is when the light hits it just so. You're studiously avoiding the reality of your situation by focusing everything you have in on this leaf - because otherwise you're pretty sure you're going to crack.

You surprise yourself with your candor, your voice still remarkably steady as you fixate on your leaf. "No, not much," is the causal agreement.

('Sorry?!' screams a part of your mind. 'SORRY?! The FUCK you're sorry, you mother-killing asshole, you monster, you fucking nightmare on four legs, you heartless piece of SHIT. You're not sorry. I'll show you SORRY!')

You do not say any of this.

Maybe, you think, as you stare at your leaf, this is all a bad dream. A weird nightmare brought on by lack of oxygen, or some bizarre plant, or a fever. Certainly it seems to be - there's no other way you can be lying here, under a giant tree in the middle of some crying flowers, chatting casually with the killer of so many people you love. This is a bizarre hallucination, and any minute now, you're going to wake up on the shore of the Throat, your hair slick with salt and sand in your hair, Ma yelling and the twins laughing and Sparky playing and Iso nearby, teaching Mauna all about the world.

Except this is reality, and that's the dream, and sooner or later you're going to have to face that.

Just... maybe not right now.

"Are you gonna kill me, too?" you ask of Kaos, because why else would he have come? Maybe it's foolish to be so blunt, to tempt fate with stupid questions, but what the hell - if you're gonna die anyway, you'd rather know. And if you die, maybe you'll be able to find Iso, and poke fun because she never believed in spirits, but here you both are, spirits, laughing, exploring, adventuring.


image | coding

Currently championing:
The rain fell on him.

His heart was unruly, a mixture of the anger of the slain, and the curiosity of the child; whatever was happening in front of him was ..enthralling. It was a facet of emotion he either did not possess, or simply ignored; it was foreign and it was mortal and somehow, so, so beautiful. (Not to mention useless, and that was probably why Kaos had elected not to feel it.)

It was grief. It plucked at his brows, twisting them into a concerned mask, but upon his broad, long-jawed face, it probably looked anything but empathetic, and with eyes of black-and-teal—the color of so much recent death—how could he seem anything but that killer?

And yet, he felt for the stallion caught in the crossfire of pride and desperation. He had suffered, where he would not have needed to, had some things in history not gone as they had.

Regret didn't move you forward, so Kaos was reserved with his regrets, too.

He listened. He listened, because that was why he had come—not to poke and probe the wound, to bleed it, or to rub it in (but honestly, how can he not, when he is what he is?). He had come to listen, to learn, to follow his own advice. So his spectral tail, for the moment long and tangled, swished around his crooked hocks once as he stood in the rain.

"No," he finally said when there was something to answer, something tangible for a creature awkward at genuineness. Silence, on his part, lingered for a moment, joined by dark smoke seeping from the corner of his mouth. "No," he said again, as if he'd been deep in thought. He hadn't. Not really.

He fought the urge to move, to pad closer, to somehow wind himself around the downed stallion and—what? Smother him? Breathe false life into him, false strength? Seal away that part of his memories? Mind control him, turn him into a puppet?

No more shortcuts. No more games. Wasn't that what he had said? He chewed on his lips for a moment.

"I don't want to be seen as ..trying to buy you," he finally began, "but is there anything I can do for you?" He paused. He didn't want to bait Zèklè, if the idea was not to occur to him, but for good measure, he thought it to himself: I will not be surprised if you ask me to leave you alone, for the rest of your life.

Could he? Would he? Was he honorable enough? His eyes glowed dimly in the rain, and he waited.

[ @Zèklè ]
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
Currently championing:

Player is absent until

And in the sea that's painted black
Creatures lurk below the deck
But you're my queen and I'm a lionheart
The beat of the rain grows louder in the silence. Somewhere nearby, thunder rolls. More water is getting in now, eliciting wails from the inconsolable flowers, leaving black trails among your dark hair. A drop lands on your cheek; another strikes your leaf, filling the cup of it, trembling and threatening to overflow (like your heart, like your soul, like the emotion that wells within you and pushes at the floodgates, pounds on the doors, rocks and shifts like a storm beneath you as you try to stay steady, a ship without a lighthouse, carried by cruel winds into a starless sea). Wouldn't it be easier to capsize and just be done with it? you wonder as you eye your leaf, still rising and falling in time with your breathing, still the only anchor you have in the weird set of circumstances you've stumbled upon. Instead of fighting, instead of trying - wouldn't it be nice to spill your contents like blood on the pavement, until all that's left of you is a taped up silhouette and a body in a bag?

No, says Kaos, and for once the beast is right - it's not your turn to die.

That single word, that soft denial - you turn to face him, your devil, surprised enough by this new development to finally widen your world past the little speck of green, to accept that, okay, maybe this is real life. Your body follows your eyes, rolling you from back to side, your metal wing tucked beneath you, your normal one tucking back to your side. Still on the ground you gaze up at him, unabashed emotion dancing in your sunbeam eyes, a mixture of fear and loathing, disbelief and acceptance, fury and relief. 'No?' you're tempted to demand, to spit in his face, 'Why not? You had no problem killing everyone I love'- but though you may be an idiot you are not that stupid, and for once you manage to hold your tongue, literally biting down on the organ to keep it from bleeding more words. Not for him - not even for you - you keep your temper for them, for the ones you love who aren't dead, not yet.

For Sparky and your Little Mountain, because if you get yourself killed now, their mothers are sure to murder you when you reach wherever they are.

"Oh," you say through gritted teeth. "Okay."

So why is the monster here, if not to kill you dead? Has he come to witness your descent into madness; does the demon find pleasure in your agony, your grief? Is this, you wonder, how he prospers and grows, where his strength comes from? Is misery the thing that fuels the beast?

In that case you must be a fatty feast indeed, a five-course dinner for the most discerning glutton, a tasty treat indeed.

No- Kaos isn't here to eat you, or kill you, or bake you into a pie. His intentions, it seems, are far more sinister, far less decipherable, incredibly opaque.

Kaos, Kisamoa, your new and generous god, Santa of the Rift, He Who Is Definitely SorryNotSorry For Ruining Your Life, wants to do something for you. That's right - you, Zèklè, Zero, the Cripple and your mountainous grief, have earned the attention and benevolence of the goddamned asshole who slaughtered half your family right before your eyes!

Must be your lucky fucking day.

You can't help it. You laugh.

The sound is dry, humorless, mirthless - a far cry from your usual boyish tone, the delight that historically rings from your chest. You continue to chuckle as you rise, your knees pushing against the flower-strewn ground, your body flexing and tightening as you struggle to your hooves, shaking, scoffing, face downcast and feathers ruffling. "What can you do for me?" you question incredulously, your gaze still on your hooves, on the ground, on the bright green leaf that now lies, discarded, on the dead earth. "What can you do for me?"

Kaos is more a presence than a person, more an impending sense of doom that a physical creature, or even a god. You get the feeling that he could reach out and swallow you whole if he wanted, just unhinge those jaws like a giant snake, wrap you in his tongue and pull you past those crooked teeth, into the cloud of his rancid breath and down the oily, seeping throat. Looking at him makes you shudder, raises bile in your mouth - but look you do, your sunbeam gaze vibrant with unshed tears and quivering rage. Your mouth is a mockery of your crooked smile, your gaze is bloodshot- you look a little crazed, Zero, maybe you should sit back down before you do something you regret.

But behind the anger, behind the pain, something deadly lurks - something that glitters, knifelike, in your eyes, brutal and cruel, coiled like a snake. It is the thing that will drive you crazy, the thing that will cause your death. It is your kryptonite, your weakness, the wource of your strength and your greatest flaw.

It is hope.

"You can bring them back." The shield of mirth is gone from your face, and the thing in its place is raw. Your voice is a hoarse whisper, a child's prayer, a flickering candle in a wind tunnel, valiantly fighting through the night. Your eyes meet his, and you try to hold that terrible gaze, to find within it some spark of humanity, some sign that maybe, maybe, your request isn't as crazy as it seems. "My siblings, an' Isopia, an my Ma-"

(Ampere, flying, her voice a ringing cry, the same old concerns - "what about companions?" - the same passion, and you watch her through the wailing of your shattered heart, hear her over the screams, wanting, needing, aching for your Ma-)

You swallow, blinking, a sudden shield of fresh tears obscuring your sight. Bite your lip; furrow your brows; you're not ready to cry over her. Not yet.

"You can bring them back," you croak. "And then you can leave us the fuck alone."

Isopia is a tear in your heart; Ampere is a hole.

You're empty either way.

image | coding

Currently championing:
He actually began to doubt.

But only for a moment.

He thought that, maybe, he shouldn't have come here. Maybe, he shouldn't have pulled the cloak from his shoulders, and tried to console someone he was woefully ill-equipped to console. Maybe, he should've laughed instead, and just hammered their idea of him—his idea of himself—deeper. Kisamoa, and his reign of terror in the Rift. Kisamoa, the one who enslaved Helovians into the service of another realm. Kisamoa, the one who killed their loved ones and didn't even give a damn.

He'd laughed and sung as he killed their Gods, hadn't he?

He'd come here because he'd wanted to learn. He'd come here because he'd wanted to fix it, this thing he broke, and this thing he hated seeing broken.

He hadn't come to have the consequences of his actions thrown in his face, and have it actually hurt.

Which is to say—either he had not understood what he had done, or he had chosen not to. Whichever it was was both pointless to know, and to speculate on, because the fact remained: this had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, barely even a plan, just a stirring of something inside, and it had just happened to align with what his analytical mind told him.

Oh, and a lack of impulse control.

He was a fifth mind shoved in between four spirits, a child in a body he did not own, a single consciousness with clarity contending with four dead, clouded ones. His entire world was built around what he had known upon being created. He didn't go so far as to regret, though. He didn't go so far as to doubt. That, would've been to go too far, too soon.

So what did he do, to the broken thing he was, clumsily, trying to stitch back together, pieces of a ripped paper in paws and claws that weren't meant to fix anything, only destroy? He couldn't even find the tape, so what did he have? Nothing. Nothing. Zèklè burst out into laughter that even Kisamoa knew was wrong.

He was Kisamoa—he was Kaos. He was the abomination child of four dead deities. He could consume worlds, rip the fabrics of space and time, and kill with barely more than a thought.

And he had never felt more helpless.

In his customary silence he met Zèklè's eyes. He blinked, on occasion, his eyelids maybe the only things on his body that looked soft—long lashes, downy fur. Teal veins threaded his irises, and on his monstrous face, emotion was hard to read. What did his lowered head, drooping ears, sagging shoulders mean? What was his tail, hanging limp along a hind leg, saying?

How do you know with a monster? He swallowed, the motion lost in the constant shifting of his body, as if the Gods he was made of couldn't quite decide who got what part, and kept pulling other things into the mix. He was afraid of what he might find if he looked at himself—all those he had killed, had he somehow absorbed them, and was that why his body couldn't quite keep still?

The request was made. It was the two things he had hoped the least for, but suspected the most; he did not look away, for he felt he owed the horse that much. "Ah," said the one who had died four times. Slowly, he shifted his weight from side to side, swaying a little. How do you, gently, say, I could, but you might not like it, or, Isopia is a thing I cannot touch, her essence something not under my jurisdiction, or, I can't mend things you motherfucker, or, fuck them, they made their choices, or—it's a tide of rage, but it's not his, precisely. It's the rage of those killed.

They keep saying the score isn't settled, that it's not in balance yet, but shouldn't your world being saved be enough?

(It's not enough it can never be enough they were not enough because their Gods protected them it's not a permanent fix you failed)

He was still only Kisamoa, the Destroyer. The Deceiver. "You made your request," he finally said, his voice heavier, somehow. He didn't want to deny him. He didn't want to tell him to ask for something else, anything else—he didn't want to extend his hand only to snatch it away because it burned when it touched him. Thunder rolled, and Kisamoa's skin with it. So many things were on his tongue, on his mind—would you all have come, if I had asked? Would your Gods have let you go, if I had asked? Would you have helped save my world, if I had asked?

The world they had destroyed with barely any second thoughts, except for Isopia. The Mountain That Knows. Had she known this would come?

His experiences with saving worlds was limited. The Riftians had cried out for help, and the Helovian Gods had answered with deicide and theft. Was it, then, so strange that he followed in their steps?

"I..." the great beast began, then fell silent. I don't want to promise anything sounded too much like I'll forget about it tomorrow. He closed his eyes. "I will do what I can," he finally said, his voice heavy like the mountains themselves, "but death.. It's... I don't—I can't recommend coming back from it."

It was pounding in his head. It was too much. This wasn't what he had wanted. He hadn't wanted to come here and absolutely lose his hold because, he hadn't even known there was something he was holding on to? But he'd found it, in the folds of vengeance and hunger, a space in the body and between the souls—one that was his.

He needed something to bury it in.

"I'm so, so sorry," the creature whispered, his mouth and face having shaped into something soft, something almost recognizable. He sounded broken.

He felt broken. Kisamoa pulled the cloak of shadows over him again, disappeared, and fled.

Left behind in the rain and the song of the flowers, Zèklè's metal wing starts to glow, and the other spits a few sparks. It's unclear whether it's something he did, or something the Rift did.

[ Congratulations Zèklè! ]
VANITY MAGIC: Lightning markings on his back and wing crackle with harmless sparks
VANITY MAGIC: The metal parts on his body glows when wet

beauty in darkness
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
Currently championing:
Under a cloud of rain, of shadows, of smoke, fumes, and flowers, the child wandered for the sake of knowledge, for the sake of learning, for the sake of something to do while his head spun and his spirits drifted. A portion of him still looked for her too, his mother, a sacred being, an oasis, a foundation and fountain of wisdom, of love, of devotion, and he wanted to give it back to her. He wanted to extend his wondrous heart to beat in time, in unison, with hers again, and they could waltz amongst the fields of ivy and clover, of mist and fog, drift in and out of the abyss as he regaled her with everything he’d discovered, cherished, or explored. He wanted his father to be happy and content again, away from the painted smiles, the varnished pretenses, the glimpses of apprehension, fear, and fright, past the particles of terror and horror – because he saw it in Zero’s eyes sometimes when he thought he wasn’t looking. He wanted his family whole and together, with Iskra’s mighty sparks of laughter and lightning, with grandmother Ampere’s swift cunning, with Otem and Vulkan’s contentment and careful guidance, with the embrace of a heritage, of kin, of camaraderie built into a shelter, a sanctuary, of love and devotion. For all his yearnings, for all his innocent, tenacious greed, the youth had virtually no idea it was impossible, improbable, and unattainable. Instead, his little soul soared with his munitions, with his hope, with his buoyancy, and scattered the stars in his wake, growled in the bloom of darkness, and stared out into the wide-open world, believing one day, if he looked just in the right place, he’d catch a glimpse of her once more. Then everything would be right. Everything would be fine. Everything would be intact. He wouldn’t have to worry so much about his sire. He wouldn’t have to wonder her whereabouts. The babe would be allowed to dream about so much more.

A massive, dark beacon caught his eye, snatched and enticed him for a few moments, allowed the brazen, stark curiosity to unfurl within his skull. The eerie siren was apparently lifeless – a towering, colossal tree with branches reaching toward the misty sky, and it must’ve been amazing to behold in its youth, when everything was green, verdant, and vibrant. Now, it looked as though it had been blackened, scarred, scorched, and ignited, perhaps by another, perhaps by rage, perhaps by nature. Something stirred in his chest – partly feeling bad for the great behemoth that once ruled over the territory, reduced to a ruin, and another contortion enticing him towards its grand sanction. He inched closer and closer, breathing in the fumes of the illustrious spire, crimson eyes settling on its elongated branches, its chronicles web work of gnarled twigs, daring to brush his maw across a piece of sooty bark (not caring when it stained his muzzle). In turn, he was granted with the most serene of sentiments curling through him – nearly tranquil, full of repose, a fleeting feeling he hadn’t felt in ages, not since before this time, this hour, this place - and he withdrew from its touch, loosening another breath to ghost across the void. Then the boy smiled, aware, fixated, on the notion that despite the broken limbs, the faltering dominion, the formidable wood was no beast, monster, or foe.

Then, with another beckoning cluster of movement, motion, and luminescence, Mauna spotted his father around the other side of the tremendous trunk, and the boy nearly shouted, hooted, hollered in celebration, in glory (but for what?), until he was moved to silence, to stare, at his sire again.

Zero had always been radiant, had always gleamed, since the moment Mauna had known him. He was full of life, effervescent, a welcoming, warm embrace, a tender catalyst of strength, endurance, and fortitude with the gentlest of smiles, and had the little mountain boy not had him for a father, he still would’ve craved to be near his side – merely to be there, curled and coiled in his entity. But now, Zekle truly shined; glimmers on his metallic portions, sparks zapping on his wings, on his markings, enticing his child closer and closer, completely ignorant of what had just transpired, on where the shadows had come from, on where they were bound to go. It was just his father now – and he carved his tiny hopes back into his soul, etching a beatific smile across his face as he announced his presence amidst the timeless abyss. “Father, you’re glowing!” It seemed so perfect, so incredible, so awe-inspiring, that he then sidled up to Zero’s left shoulder, placing his maw there, ignoring the soot, the ash, and simply revering his sire’s presence, his gifts, his abilities. “You’re amazing,” he said, and he meant it with every fiber, with every breath, with every inflection.

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Otem the Hopebringer
Currently championing:
another mind, another soul, another body to grow old.
it's not complicated.

Zekle wasn't the only one who glowed: the dapples that softly lined Otme's belly and neck pulsed with a warm golden light. It was subtle and rather charming, unlike the brilliant metallic gleam of Zekle's wing and other metal parts, but it certainly was distinctive.

Otem hadn't seen Kisamoa arrive or depart, having stopped only when she saw Mauna. The autumn-touched girl felt no real connection to the siblings she had on her Father's side (other than her twin of course), perhaps because they were so plentiful. On Isopia's side however, there was only Mauna, and something about that made him feel so special, like he was a thing to be cherished. Like he was a piece of Isopia that Otem couldn't quite let go. She was just a child herself of course, but Mauna was an even younger child, and as his older sibling, she would do what she could to protect him.

That's why she was currently lurking just behind a tree, partially avoiding the rain, watching Mauna and Zekle.

Otem wasn't quite sure what to make of Zero now that her mother was dead. She'd heard many things about Iso and Zero's childhood adventures, but with her gone, Otem wasn't sure what sort of ground that left she and this removed potential step-father. They had Mauna in common, but perhaps that didn't matter. Isopia was the thing that linked them together, and

...she was gone.

Otem wrapped her wings around her shoulders, as if giving herself a hug. She continued to watch father and son, despite the fact that she couldn't quite hear what they were saying. "He looks just fine ... he's got his dad to look out for him."  Otem mumbled to Pandora, as if she really was just checking up on Mauna, and not being a creepy stalker because she was secretly lonely.

art by Chloe!

Terrible post is terrible. Otem is just lurking in the bushes watching x.x

You may always use magic/force on/against Otem.
Currently championing: Caevoc
TEXT HERE TEXT HERE TEXT HERE TEXT Iskra was coming in behind Mauna, having stuck with his nephew while they wandered about, giving Zekle some time to himself. It was frightening in this new place however, and more and more Iskra wanted to spend less time without his family, afraid perhaps that in an instant they'd be gone too. So they slipped back in, searching for the lightning brother, the electric father, the one and only Zero. They had no notion of the event that had just transpired, nor the enormity of it.

As Mauna ran on ahead, giddy and cheerful with his youth, Iskra lingered back. He was not reluctant, but something had caught his attention, and he hesitated because of it, squinting into the shrubbery. It could be something dangerous, and while he was no warrior he was certainly no coward either. Of course, it could be something helpful or valuable as well, but the experiences thus far at the Rift suggested that as doubtful. So, preparing for the worst, Iskra gently crept up towards the brush, practically ready to pounce.

"Hey," he whispered loudly as he drew upon Otem, delightfully surprised to find her and not some colt-eating monster. "What're you doing?" he asked in overly noisy hushed tones, body hunkered down in the weeds beside her. It wasn't clear if Iskra was truly asking, oblivious to the obvious, or if he was playing along to give her a good out. "Are you practising?" he wondered, giving up on being quiet. "I used to, back when we had herds, I thought I'd try being a sneak when I grew up." There was a seriousness in his tone that advised against laughter.

Not looking for somebody
With some superhuman gifts
Just something I can turn to
Somebody I can miss

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Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.