07-19-2017, 06:49 PM (This post was last modified: 07-20-2017, 12:26 AM by Weaver.)
She doesn’t know what to do. It’s such a strange feeling for her, to be this purposeful. Life outside a herd is not unfamiliar to her, but then she was traveling, learning the ways of one place with every intention of leaving them behind. Then she’d wormed her way into the local’s good graces (usually) as a guest, under the pretense of being a stranger just passing through. Other creatures are endlessly more welcoming when they know you intend to leave. So far, she doesn’t think the same is true of the Rifitians, and Weaver doesn’t even blame them. A bunch of wayward Helovian’s just came crashing through the Portal, basically taking over. Not that they wanted to come here, but here they were nonetheless.
Weaver’s taken to spending most of her time on the Key, finding it to be one of the only pleasant places around. The fruit was sweet and nothing seemed likely to kill her. The Key was somewhat unoccupied though, and while that was all fine and dandy, she also wanted to be around the other Helovian’s as they figured out what the hell to do. So she came back to the mainland, usually to the cliff and the Rainforest even though it was hot as balls here. Raven didn’t seem to mind the heat, even huddled on her back as he was. He still worried her, something obviously wrong with him and their connection, but she had no idea what or how to fix it. He didn’t seem to be getting worse, at least.
Today the rain is heavy and miserable. The rainforest, with its dense trees, offers some sort of protection from the deluge, at least, and so she keeps to the thicker parts of the forest. Rain gets through the leafy canopy above, but it’s tolerable except for the wall of heat that she’s now wading through. Seriously, what an unpleasant place, and she’s phrasing this thought as nicely as possible. If she had something to even do, it might make the place less miserable. She could use a good fight, maybe, but for now the world was too busy trying to figure out how to live in this place to think about sparring. So she keeps walking, hoping to find something to do.
He has turned this place into his home. The Floating Key doesn't have the rock he used to use in the Throat to tell him what time to get up, nor does it have his designated sleeping space, but he's turned it into his own. He has found another tree to sleep beneath, and there's another rock nearby with a different notch that he can tell the time with, and it's going to have to do because he senses that he will never be able to return to Helovia. With his routine restored, the yearling feels slightly better about things, although no amount of order within this chaos will bring back his mother, nor rid him of the black pit inside his chest where she used to be. Vulkán is not good with his emotions, but he knows that he doesn't like this one - grief.
It was all going so well, until he saw those glowing eyes. They placed a seed of white-hot pain into his mind, a burn that he cannot shake or rid himself of. It is borderline unbearable; he finds himself wondering if death would be preferable, if indeed it's even possible to die in this corrupted place. The only relief can be found when he pictures the words that flash on repeat through his mind - share three secrets. Help another with their trial. Help tell a destructive lie. He doesn't understand the words, because why would he wish to do any of those things? He does, however, feel their pull inside his body, and senses deep inside that they are the cure to his affliction.
Doing them, though, will be a completely different story, given Vulkán's lack of ability to lie, lack of secrets, and lack of empathy.
This rainy, sweaty day finds him blundering through the forest, blinded by the pain inside his head. His eyes are screwed shut, his wings spread out in front of him to guide him through the trees. Frustration is obvious in his posture, however he knows that he must control what emotions he has else his horns and shoulder will spew lava that actually hurts.
"Oof!" His chest collides with something - it's warmer and fleshier than a tree, and the yearling recoils with a snort. Reluctantly he peels his eyes open, trying to ignore the burn that rampages through them. The target he's blundered into is a mare, but rather than apologise, the colt simply stares numbly at her.
image: naia-art
Hope it was okay to PP him walking into her, let me know if you want me to change! @Weaver
She should see him coming. She should be aware, should care, should be paying bloody attention. There are so many eyes in the trees here though, so many reasons to not give two shits about what’s around the corner that she just doesn’t. It’s unlike her, a trained fighter, to simply let things plow into her, but she does. What would she even fight for, here? She doesn’t know their gods and doesn’t care for them. She doesn’t want to make this place home, and right now, it certainly doesn’t feel like it. Weaver has lived her life in mountains and valleys, calling no other places home though she’s traveled through all manner of landscapes and worlds. There were no mountains or valleys here that she has been able to find yet, and she cannot fathom living her life confined to these five ruined lands.
She keeps wondering what might happen if she leaves this place, heads back through the Portal. Would it dump her out into the blackness of Helovia, or did it lead to any place someone might imagine? Could she send herself to her childhood home, back to the Chamber? Not that she really wants to go back there either, but still, it might be better. Though no, it wouldn’t, because there was no one there she cared about. Here, though she’d be loath to admit it, there were quite a number of horses she cared too much about to simply leave. So instead of leaving, she’s stayed put, losing herself to this place a little more every day.
The stranger that bumps into her doesn’t look like a Riftian, but a rather young colt from Helovia (though she could be wrong, it’s not like she’s met that many Rifitians to know if they were all crazy looking). He says nothing, just stares at her, and it brings a laugh to her lips. The sound of it is so out of place beneath the rain and the misery that lays heavily around them, but it hangs in the air between them anyway. She’s not even sure what’s so funny, except that it is definitely funny.
The colt looks a whole lot like Volterra, actually. She recalls their battle now, and a bit of a grin creeps onto her lips at the thought of it. Perhaps they are related, perhaps not, but the smile is enough to break her bad mood. “Oof to you too,” she says, pretending to be insulted though it’s clear by the playful look on her face she really doesn’t care. It’s her own damn fault she wasn’t paying attention. “Helovian?” she asks, making sure her assumption is right.
Her laugh makes him blink, whilst his intelligent mind shoots through all of the hundreds of reasons why she may be laughing despite the fact he's just walked into her. None of them make a great deal of sense, so the colt simply stands rather dumbly whilst waiting for her to explain the reason for the odd noise. It's accompanied by an upturn of the lips that the yearling has come to learn is a grin, usually a sign of happiness, amusement, or general good-feeling. Vulkán's own expression rarely ventures from a slight frown, the same way that his speech rarely deviates from a strict monotone devoid of any inflections or pitch changes.
He adds up the grin and the laughter, yet it doesn't make things any clearer. She then repeats his words back at him, which makes him all the more confused. Deciding to plough on ahead despite his discomfort about this mare's odd behaviour, the yearling seizes with relief upon her next question. Ah, yes, this he can understand. "Yes," he says in his monotone rumble. "My name is Vulkán. Who are you?" She may have been present during the mass death at the portal's creation, but he cannot be sure.
A sudden frisson of pain inside his head makes him cringe away with a small whimper, slamming his eyes shut again and pinning his ears as the white-hot pain erupts through his mind. It had eased slightly during his distracted thoughts about this mare's odd behaviour, but now it's back with a vengeance. The colt groans audibly and scrunches his face up, not thinking for a second how this might appear to the tobiano in front of him.
The boy is apparently about as interesting as a tree stump. He just stares at her, blinking. Okay fine, she is a little lot weird and her laugh is entirely out of place. The laugh doesn’t fit the situation or the mood of this place or the damn humid air or the rain that does not seem inclined to let up. Still, usually a laugh lighten the mood or at least elicits a smile or some semblance of relief from the other horse involved. This boy, however, just stands there looking confused and she wonders who raised him (or didn’t).
He really does look like Volterra, but she’s fought Volterra, and the stallion is flirtatious and entirely capable of witty banter. Maybe they are related in looks, but clearly not in personality. Weaver has no way of knowing who the boy’s mother is, having only met the Mountain once and seeing no obvious resemblance (the skull face is pretty obvious). Nor would she really be able to pinpoint how like his mother the boy is even if she did know.
He at least manages to reply when she asks a question. The grin and amusement from her face disappears, replaced by a rather impassive mask. She almost looks bored – almost. There’s always something to be said for conversation with a stranger. Usually she learns something, and there’s definitely value in learning. “Weaver,” she says, answering his question.
Before they can talk more though, the boy slams his eyes shut and pins his ears, clearly in pain. Immediately her amber eyes dart around, looking for a threat, for any explanation for the sudden pain. She’d let him walk right into her, so clearly her warrior Spidey senses were not on point today and perhaps she missed a threat. Despite all the eyes that stare at them with interest, there’s no apparent attack though, no obvious threat for her to fight.
“Yo, boy…er, Vulkan. What’s going on?” She can’t bring herself to ask ‘are you okay’ because obvious he is not. Nor can she really come up with some way to help him because she is not the caring, kind and loving sort. Healing is not her forte. Cutting others and herself up and getting Mortuus to heal her though is definitely her forte. Why the hell isn’t he here? He’d be so much more useful. “Can I do something?”
The pain ebbs, burns, then eases enough for him to unclench his face with a groan. The mare asks what's going on, and in his literal sense, that acts as a cue for the yearling to splurge out every part of his crisis. "I saw some eyes in the undergrowth, and now they are inside my head, burning a white-hot pain. I do not know how to get rid of them, save for the fact that they seem to be urging me to complete certain tasks...I must help another with their trial, help tell a destructive lie, and share three secrets." He winces again as the pain returns, before mercifully ebbing away slightly. He's used to this torment now, but it doesn't make it any easier.
Can I do something? The yearling glances up at her, blinking slowly. He's fully aware now that he will have to complete the tasks he's been set in order to get rid of his pain, but he'd not actually given much thought to how he was going to do so. Here he has a mare who seems willing to help him, a complete stranger, and it would be lax of him not to accept that offer. It doesn't occur to the colt that she may be offering just to be polite and might not actually want to help him, but in his deeply literal mind, he takes things at face value.
"Perhaps I could share some secrets with you?" He doesn't have many, but he's sure he can think of some if he digs into the deepest depths of his mind. At this moment in time, he'll do anything to get rid of this torture inside his head, and that includes splurging the contents of his mind.
Rainforest Cliffs
