The little honeybee girl had never ventured into the Labyrinth when it’d rested amidst Helovia’s pathways. It hadn’t been a discovery, a sojourn, an adventure for her – perhaps too far away, perhaps too unknown, or she’d saved it for the here and now.
Had she of known about it, she likely would’ve never stepped within its green fortress.
The mists were instantly overwhelming, and she was dazed, rattled, confused by the fog’s directions, seemingly everywhere at once, making her scowl, making her squint, pulsing over her senses until they were on edge, on fire, ardent and ferocious. Sila squirmed from her nest of wings and feathers along Melita’s back, and together they tiptoed into the carnivorous wake, hoping for a sign, a reason, for daring the unknown (before, there wouldn’t have been anything but impulsiveness, sheer notions of because I can; however, here, in the dark, dreary wake of eldritch things, there had to be purpose, there had to be drive).
She could hear others, shouts, bellows, and strived to get nearer, tiny footsteps making only dulcet motions, pleading she’d somehow escape notice, not become another caught in the abysmal webs, but all that changed in an instant. From the corner of her eye, she saw her.
Her mother – draped in that finely spun gold, her ivory dragon on her shoulder, every bit as gentle and serene, every bit as protective and wondrous as the last time she’d seen her. The child’s heart beat in frantic, sublime intricacies, a cacophony to her ears, building with every step she took towards her dam’s image, tears running unfettered, unbound down her cheeks, her voice a beautiful, zealous tune. “Mom!” She was safe, she was whole, she was untouched by the dangers, by the treacheries, of this ridiculous place-
But as she grew closer, as she stepped over fields of enigmatic design, as she swarmed in delight, her mother’s tranquil figure lost its repose, its tangibility, it’s peaceful complexion. Her smile was replaced with an eerie, bewitching grin, a haunting, striking line set upon ruins and ruins of ash, of ghosts, of wraiths and phantoms. All the delight Melita had managed to conjure in the wake of tenacity, because her dreams had come true and they were reunited, collapsed; and only infernal trepidation swallowed, consumed her, nearly robbed her of everything she’d ever craved as her dam’s image became purely demonic. It was ghoulish, it was fierce, it was poised like daggers, like knives, like cloaks and catacombs, and she couldn’t run from it, couldn’t do anything but be devoured in its essence. “Mom?” She asked on a dreadful whisper, and Sila bristled, electricity and sparks, but it wouldn’t be enough to conquer this dastardly foe (it can’t be her). The only thing she could do was back away, features contorted in horror, in pain, in misery, for the deceit clawing its way through her mind – “Please don’t,” she murmured again, terrified and tortured, trembling and quivering, incapable of consecrating anything but a plea for liberation and deliverance.
Was it the appeal of familiar lands, even if they were inherently unfamiliar under the strange lights and atmosphere of the rift, that drew the dragonmare to them? It was foolish, the comforts of a memory, of a realm so certainly, so severely lost to them all - was it any wonder, really, why she came back?
Perhaps she was only capable of wandering in great circles, of revisiting old haunts in the hopes of seeing something new, of learning something different, something that would turn the clock back and restore what was, what had been, to what is, what will be.
But it wasn't to happen, it wasn’t possible, even if the dragonmare hoped for it at her very core, her very soul. The hope itself was so deeply rooted within her, she hadn't even realised it was there, until yet again she arrived at this familiar land, her hooves standing on this familiar loam, watching with ever-observant eyes the familiar way the mists rolled between the trees, the stalks, the leaves.
Only, it wasn't mist.
Amaris was too far away from the rest of them to know what was happening. She was too far away, too lost in her own mind besides, to realise that the mists reaching out for her, forming the face of one she loved and missed so dearly, reaching out to touch her, to embrace her, to hold her up again the tide of despair she had been fighting to hide, to control, to quell and subdue, (to survive).
Mother, Mirage, the DragonHeart, the WeyrLeader, the Queen, stood before her, seemingly a devious black mare in one breath, and a fantastic golden dragon in another.
The dragonmare could not stop herself, could not stop her steps as they brought her form nearer to this image of her mother, of the mare she both loved and hated, loathed for leaving her, for abandoning her, for thinking she was strong enough to face this world alone, helplessly, hopelessly alone…
But she wasn't alone.
Dramyrth's presence came crashing down upon her consciousness then, strong and defiant, bold and brazenly loud and sure. LIES! he cried, he roared, his fury burning through her senses, alighting her, incensing her to realise the truth of this apparition, this ghost of a memory, of a desire. Had her dragon had breath to scorch or freeze this demon, he would have, but the rift had stolen that from him - so he screamed and roared and flew at it instead.
And Amaris, awoken from her stupor, from her reverie, reacted to his fury, and summoned a single spirit with her magic to cast its light upon the situation, to breathe its fire and destroy that which would otherwise cause harm. Together, they chased this demon through the Labyrinth, deeper and deeper still, until she became aware of the others, of the crowd, of the God, like the tiger, making changes to the land (healing it?).
It was all she could do not to lose her mind and follow the spirits to their ultimate end on the God's great gaping mouth as well.
The place was hauntingly familiar. Floods of memory welled up within her as she roamed the winding labyrinth while the writhing whittled away at the barrier between imagination and reality. Erthë thought she could distinguish shapes in that roiling whiteness, faces and forms of individuals loved and lost. It took a while for her to accept that this really was the same land that she had come to know as Helovian, the same Green Labyrinth that so many had died to obtain... and once she did, all the little mare could think of was how she had met her Goddess for the first time. It had been here, somewhere amidst these winding paths, in a clearing that probably could not be distinguished from any other...
Yet she couldn't help searching for it, even though it was hopeless. It would be like... like finding another piece of the Lady's body, another proof that it had not all been a dream, another keepsake to remember Her by. The memory of the exquisitely perfect features were still burned onto the insides of her eyelids, still vibrant and clear and strong. But how long would that last? How long, before she started to forget the details of that beloved face, how long until her mind began to fabricate details, twist things around until the Goddess became nothing more than a shadow of Her true glory?
Erthë just could not let that happen.
And yet, the deeper she came into the green bamboo forest, the more unsettled she felt. Those shapes at the corners of her eyes seemed to multiply, growing more distinct and increasingly familiar the further she went. Then she turned around a bend in the path, and suddenly voices cut through the stillness, shouts and screams and an all too familiar growling voice that nearly brought her to her knees in shock and horror. Erthë ran towards the noise, and came upon the scene with eyes wide and startled, and found herself standing there as if paralyzed, unable to comprehend.
But... but they had killed the wolf. Killed it, butchered it, scattered its body across every corner of Helovia. She even carried a piece of him around her neck, a black fang that glowed with a dark aura that was not light but not exactly darkness either. And yet... here he was, or his eyes at least, and that tiger had appeared too for a short while...
Did that mean they were not truly dead? If their minds were still lingering, could there be a way to bring them back?
It was a strange thing to contemplate, considering how hard she had fought to help slay these monsters not so very long ago. But if their return meant that Kaos' powers would diminish, if it meant she could atone for her part in the destruction of someone else's home - the way Kisamoa had destroyed hers - then it was worth a try. Even though the sight of the gleaming eyes frightened her. Even though the snapping teeth still haunted her nightmares. Even though she feared Reszo more than any of the other Riftian gods or even Kaos in his twisted, ever-changing nightmare of a body.
Dodging and weaving to avoid the attacking spirits, their faces so familiar and precious that the sight of their features twisted into grimaces of anger and hate nearly drove her from her senses, Erthë tried to get closer to the apparition of the Wolf God, in the hopes that the remnant of its body might grant some vestige of power to manifest further, some anchor in this physical world from which to draw strength - perhaps even revive it some.
Unlike his father, Vulkán is not so easily fooled by the apparition that takes the form of his mother. This is probably because he is not as stupid as his sire - and he doesn't mean that in a derogatory manner, not really, because Volterra's assets lie in other areas, and he's not truly stupid, more....uneducated. The volcano-boy, however, is far too intelligent for his own good; this means that when the ghost materialises in front of him and pretends to be his mother, he simply stares at it with mild interest, as though observing an new species of fungi.
There's another reason why he doesn't fall for the trick as easily as his father does - because he lacks the emotions to do so. He misses his mother, of course he does, but he doesn't understand the true depths of his grief or mourning about her loss. He simply accepts it as fact, and that means he's not as eager as Volterra is to reverse it. Death cannot be reversed. The giantess is gone, never to return, and the colt sees no use in trying to pretend otherwise.
All the same, morbid curiosity bids him to follow the Isopia-ghost into the midst. There's dozens of others; there's screaming, too, from living and dead alike. Whilst everybody else thrashes at the spirits or shouts at them or quivers in their depths, Vulkán ambles through them as though they're nothing but fog. He gives a cursory glance to the Isopia-ghost that has fooled his father so well, noting that it is a very convincing copy, albeit translucent. Nor can it truly depict the way that the Mountain carried herself, or her expressions, or her beautiful voice that her son misses, despite his inability to truly understand why.
He sees Otem in the crowd of spectres, and ambles over to her as though he's just seen her across a boring meadow and not a ghostly labyrinth filled with the dead. "It is interesting how the ghosts are taking on the forms of the dead, don't you think? That implies a certain level of intelligence and calculation, yet we all know that death is final and that such a finality means the loss of consciousness and sentience. I wonder how they can channel the mental aptitude to take on such forms, despite the fact that they are, by their very nature, already dead?" He speaks to Otem in his usual monotone voice, making no effort to lower it for the benefit of anybody present. Why would he adjust his behaviour for the sake of others around him? It may seem rather odd to see somebody so utterly unaffected by the spirits, but that is Vulkán to a T - odd.
image: naia-art
Vulkán mooches through the spirits without really paying attention to them and speaks to @Otem
She's following her mother like a newborn foal. Deep down, the gargoyle knows that the crude spectre in front of her cannot possibly be her dead dam, but that doesn't stop her from traipsing behind it like a moth to a flame. Hope is a powerful thing, and despite Oizys's projected image of grizzled-emotionless-badass, she's pretty damn intoxicated at the idea of having her mother returned to her. She has dozens of things to say to Nyx, most starting with I'm so sorry for getting you brutally murdered by a fifty-foot bone monster, and the idea of finally obtaining closure....it's tantalising, tempting, alluring.
The spell breaks as soon as she finds herself lost amidst dozens of other malicious ghosts, each one seeming to take the form of another perished loved one. Any ray of hope that she'd felt is quickly extinguished, and she finally accepts that this spectre is not her mother. She'd known it, of course, but it is still rather crushing to realise that she'd temporarily fallen for it....or, at least, she'd wanted to fall for it.
As always, the gargoyle hides any vulnerability behind a stone facade of sarcasm and innuendo. "Yeah, that's a pretty uncanny impersonation, I'll give you that....but my mother would have a few choice and X-rated words to say to me after how she died, which is how I know you ain't her. Ten out of ten for effort, though." She aims a furious kick for the creature, although she knows it's pointless when the damn thing is translucent.
Instead, she reaches for her magic, intending to summon a pack of spark-wolves to chase the ghosts towards their master. She smiles a cold smile at the idea of bringing the creatures to heel with her magic, and prepares to launch a whole damn wolf pack into the fray....she reaches for her power, unleashes it, waits for the bombardment of spark-creatures to erupt next to her....
Just the one wolf leaps into existence. One farty little wolf, all on its lonesome. Oizys glares down at it, her face embodying all the what the fucks in the world. Since when did her magic get so shit? She tries to squeeze out more wolves, gaining an expression akin to that of somebody with constipation, but to no avail. "Oh, asshole." The whispered curse doesn't change the fact that she only has one spark-creature to work with, but she valiantly sends it out all the same. Like it wasn't enough for the Rift to fuck up her bond with Ker, it's basically castrated her magic as well!
Her one sad little wolf's sizzling, crackling blue body darts towards some of the spirits, trying to herd them like sheep towards the other wolf that waits for them - the God, their master, their destroyer.
O I Z Y S I'M NOT A HERO, I'M A LIAR
I'M NOT A SAVIOUR, I'M A VAMPIRE
08-04-2017, 10:06 PM (This post was last modified: 08-04-2017, 10:13 PM by Eleos.)
Loved ones...their expressions…those phantoms reform in the soupy mist, the shades which invade our neutrality take a personal approach to their relentless onslaught. A few of the transformed specters might've needled a familiar cord within me with their bleak, pleading suggestions that make them appear as innocent victims of foul play. Nar…throbbing, white hot aggravation builds within my gasping, heaving breast. When their imploring eyes reach for empathy, for compassion – their efforts are met with bristling fur and glistening, yellowish teeth. This soul is hardened to their trickery; these eyes have beheld the glory of the 'true' ethereal world at the end of the clearing.
These aren't pure, faultless creations. They are unworthy, castoffs of sin itself.
Demons.
My resistance creates an instant reaction...their kindly faces scrunch with those vile mouths gaping as if determined to swallow us whole. A breathless voice murmurs above the fray; wary irises slip to find Zahra, her momentum slowing…eyelids widen anxiously, “Zahra!?” Ebon brims frantically call; attempting to earn her attention…but tis doubtful she heard anything. Those tawny eyes are held captive by the visions of falsehoods before us. Lips snap, taking vain aim upon the nearest attacker. Ivory wings pivot sharply to the left, forcing my front half ahead; easing closer, “Zahra!” From behind this alloyed mask, pit-less eyes leer into the swell of a flaming phantom before driving the gushing force of one bladed wing through its smote center, aiming to distort it.
Legs kick out with arms continually driving and straining. Using every drop of agility afforded by small size -- I propel forward and lean haphazardly sideways; with my back facing Zahra. The left wing slows, while the right, bladed arm flashes hard directly through the apparitions in front of her. Hoping to create enough of a draft/uproar that her ghosts would become skewed and/or lose a fraction of their momentum.
She is lost in this place. No literally lost; no, it is easy to find her way through the skies, to orient herself by the few landmarks she has come to know. She is simply lost, without purpose, without any idea how many ghosts would join the long list of the dead that she already carried in her heart. Part of her was afraid to start looking for the living because to do that meant coming to terms with all those that she did not find. Though at the same time, she knew she needed to look, knew she needed to see who had made it. Some of her friends were here, that much she knew, and Apollo had reappeared here. As before, he’d appeared in the rainforest, winding through the unfamiliar trees just as she had been doing, looking for comfort in a place that had none.
Today she’d taken to wandering the Western Mists, looking to see what else had appeared in this place that might never feel like home. Right now it was impossible to imagine this place would ever be home, though she knows that it would have to become home. Where else would she go and how would she even leave this place? The Rift seemed very much like a one way trip.
A familiar form catches her attention, led by a dragon spirit. Lyanna’s teal eyes snap to attention, trying to figure out what’s going on. She flicks her ears forward, becoming aware of what sounds like a crowd and an uproar not all that far away. She turns her course, following the dragonmare from the Edge toward whatever might be happening. She loses sight of her friend though as the spirits find her, the ghosts that she carries with her coming to life before her eyes. They stand there around her and she digs her feet into the ground, skidding to a halt. Ru, Glasgow, her mother, her father and Corbin. Oh, Corbin.
He looks exactly as she remembers him and not a day older. That is the only clue she has, the only thing that makes her realize it is not him at all before her. Still, like before when the shadows had showed him to her, she cannot help but lose her breath, cannot keep her heart beating in a steady rythmn. “Corbin,” she breathes, her attention on him mostly, though she flicks her gaze between them all. He takes a step forward, muscles rippling beneath his buckskin coat, flames leaping around his feet.
“My dear sister,” he says and the sound of his voice is wrong. She shakes her head, looking around at all the ghosts that have found her. Her heart breaks, but they are all wrong. Glasgow’s horn is fixed, Ru has words on her lips, her parents look at her in such a loving way she knows they cannot be real. Corbin takes another step forward, but she shakes her head. He always called her Lyanna, formal but full of love. Never sister, never some other nickname, only Lyanna.
“No,” she says, and it’s unclear if she’s telling him no or herself. She calls to her wind now, bringing forth a gust to push at the spirits. She calls to the wind again and again, driving them away from her, driving the spirits toward the crowd and more importantly, the god that seems to be clearing the spirits away. She has no idea if it will work, no idea if she can move spirits with nothing but wind, but she tries, tries to help a god she does not know, tries to rid herself of every ghost that haunts her.
When there's madness, when there's poison in your head
When the sadness leaves you broken in your bed
Iskra had been pulled and prodded and led by the call of the Rift numerous times now, but as he was exploring the new-old realm (as bade, and because he wanted to), this time he was yanked. Likely it was his vial of god's blood, wolf god's blood, that lead him so hastily here. As if it recognized the stuttering phantom image of the great wolven deity, as if it cried out in need while the canine lord wrestled with ghosts of a different kind.
Iskra was breathless as he came upon the scene, too awed at first to do anything but stand and watch. An assortment of horses were either enchanted by some apparition he couldn't make out or were vengefully chasing another one down, frequently herding closer and closer to the center where the wolf god tried to make his stand. It looked like war, and so Iskra hesitated. Hadn't battle brought on enough heart for an endless amount of lifetimes, no matter the realm? Wasn't that what this shit was all about? Hadn't he hurt enough as it was, that he didn't have to face this?
He might have decided yes, and chosen not to partake, regardless of the gut-wrenching idea of simply standing and watching, of doing nothing like a snail in the rain. He might have let his thoughts wander to tales his mothers whispered at night, of tigers making isles out of the sea with strong claws, and wolf's fur turning into rampant, wild vines that snared just as easily as his magnificent teeth. Those things might have happened, if not for the fact a familiar voice lifted through the din. Even though iskra spotted Volterra and Otem, battling their own ghosts, it was the quiet despair of Melita that grabbed Iskra and ushered him to act.
Something was hurting her, and Iskra wouldn't stand for it.
He charged towards her, yelling out "Mel! Get back!" He dashed forward with a blast of super-heated air, meant to dispel the phantom, though just in case his wings lifted with their arcs of lightning sparks, set to flap and wave the electric wind at the fiend. He didn't fully understand what was happening, that it was her mother she saw, that it wasn't her mother. He just knew she needed help, and anyone who mattered to her wouldn't make her feel that way.
Iskra
I will hold you in the depths of your despair
And it's all in the name of love
The plumes of ghosts, fog, and vitriol clawed its way down her throat as she stared into the eyes of a monster. Her fear, something she’d always managed to push down into her soul, came knotted and tethered, wrapped around her form until she was merely a trembling mess – no bravery at all in the sheen of ghouls and poltergeists, beloved family turned to wraiths and tormenters. “This isn’t you,” she whispered, begging, pleading, uncertain of how to conquer this wretched enemy when it wore her mother’s face, her eyes, her essence, but not her gentleness, her warmth, her guidance. It neared, closer and closer until it seemed to touch over her cheek, light and acidic, like venom, like ice, like barbarity, nestling its mouth towards her ear. Where is your sister? Where is my darling Clementine? The girl swallowed down the biting menace suddenly spiking across her tongue, tasting vehemence where she stood, backed into hedges and vines, incapable of doing anything else, shaking her head while the murmurs still beckoned, still chased, still taunted. Tell me where she is. I must have both of you. Melita tried to ignore each and every word slashing its way through her, tried to rid herself of the horrendous beast plaguing her, of the chill curling, coiling, nestling its way down into her gut. The boiling, incensed rancor twisted over her mind, her senses, her being – Sila bristled once more, but they were out of room, with no means to escape, nowhere to run except further darkness. “You’re not real,” she proclaimed, murmured, struggling to become unchained, to defy, to simmer on the edges of sedition and wait for the world to burn down. The rest of the void seemed trapped in the same manner, but the child wasn’t about to cry out, to distract them from battling their own demons and perils. She attempted to cease trembling, to be more than a tiny child made of smiles and laughter, of exuberance and whimsy, furrowing her brows as she gazed back into the void of beasts and treachery. She’d fight, fight, and fight, even if it brought her to slaughter, to death, to damnation. “You can’t have her,” was her last stand, protective and unrelenting to the end, carved out of an unsung ferocity gathering in her veins, potent and unruly, savage, wild, untamed.
But the girl didn’t learn of the fiend’s response, because no sooner had she given her final campaign oath (the building of embers, the stoking of fires), did she hear a familiar shout driven into the bedlam. Iskra? was her first inclination of confusion, responding to his proclamations by bending further and further back into the barriers, clustered amidst the leaves and brambles, driven towards thorns – but anything was better than the chains of terror and panic. She stood in the cold, brutal silence as his powers snapped, sparked, and whipped through the air – it would’ve been mesmerizing all on its own, even without cutting, slashing, and rippling its way through her mother’s mirage. The final image, the swan song of the chimera, was a beckoning outcry from the ivory dragon clutching her shoulder, before they disappeared into a puff of smoke, ash, and dust.
All at once, she was breathless, quaking and shuddering with relief, with apprehension, boldness leaving only the layers of rebellion to hold her upright. She came forward, closer to the older boy, a cluster of upheaval, bramble-blemished skin, and sweat, inhaling, sides heaving, seeking to stare at the floor (because she was ashamed, so brutally ashamed that she’d been tricked and deceived – had they learned nothing from the perils of before?). But her eyes came up, impulsively staring into his as her lower lip threatened to tremble (then, almost a don’t you dare cry plea arrived unbidden into her mind), and she shook her skull again, let the mist toss her back into the vicious reality. “Thank you, Iskra.” She meant it, with a soft smile, a heavy sigh, sorry he had to see her as less than what she should’ve been (weak, inept, stupid), reaching out to touch his shoulder, to embrace tangibility instead of being snared back into the folds of calamity and ruin.
But she couldn’t even rejoice in the warmth of his presence, in the sanctity of his liberation. Concern stole over her again, quickly, as she dared to glance at the rest of the world around them – because more and more souls were becoming tattered, ruptured, ravaged by the claim of specters and bewitching, blistering, bestial foes. Towards the center, however, there appeared to be a catalyst, a source, for the debauchery and decadence, and her gaze narrowed, speculating, wondering, pondering if they could claim victory and vanquish foes again. But as she turned back towards her savior, she knew all too well that he’d have demons of his own plaguing him (she could remember Ampere, his beautiful, mighty mother, flying into the storm, promising savagery, then going up in smoke), and she couldn’t allow it. “There’s someone in the middle of this ruckus,” she indicated, whispering and pointing towards the sanction of bustling, bristling legions, brave, stalwart shadows risking a chance, an opportunity, to fight back. “But there are ghosts here too. You must close your eyes.” Melita proffered her decree with a stalwart smile, a mercurial, conspiring veneer, all the more willing to place herself in the forefront of danger again to ensure no one else had to be haunted. She wouldn’t have him preyed upon, visited by fiends – he didn’t deserve the cruelty, the maliciousness, he’d already had to endure. “If you want to come with me, you can follow my scent.” The waves of honey, the fields of promised gold, nectar, and ambrosia should’ve been enough – but she lifted one wing too, stretching it out (despite Sila’s protest, nest upended) so it brushed against his chest. “Because I’m going to do something about this.” The determination fueled her voice, and she marched on, into the cluster of chaos, unwilling to be a bystander, a victim, any longer. Even as the wraiths pressed, crawled, at the edge of her vision again, she walked, fury ignited.
So, shit was happening. This is the sort of life she enjoys, which may make her crazy but whatever, she already knew that. She likes being kept on her toes, but really, she just likes having something to do. Some purpose to keep her going, some excuse to fight. All she’d been doing lately was wandering around the Rift pretending to give two shits. Okay, so that’s not entirely true. She did actually care about whatever information she could come up with, because information was as powerful if not moreso than her own body or the magic that she could wield (or hope to wield, as the case may be).
Today’s ruckus comes from the Green Labyrinth, or whatever was left of it, anyway. She’s way late to the party before the sounds of others finally catch her attention. Curiosity, as it always does, gets the better of her and she turns course to find out exactly what’s going on. The commotion is…well, she’s not entirely sure. It’s different for everyone, it seems, but they all seem to cashing spirits toward someone or something or….oh. Finally, amidst the havoc she spots two red eyes and teeth, snapping at the spirits that have lived all too freely in this wasteland.
Well, well, it looks like he was trying to do something about it. Was it a he or a she or an it? Honestly, she has no idea what’s snapping at mist with red eyes, but whatever. Either she helps or she doesn’t and either way she’s stuck in this place. At least if she helps, she gets to fight. Weaver grabs the silver spike that dangles from her neck and it becomes a long, black scythe. She’d grin at the wicked looked weapon, except her mouth is full of the thing. For that matter, it’s not like she can kill a spirit, but maybe she could use the scythe to usher then toward whatever appears to be trying to eat them.
She is not, truthfully, all that interesting for vengeful spirits. No one that she cares about has died, and she cares about few anyway. Instead, the spirits that find her are faceless, countless in number, more her mother’s spirits than her own but still, Weaver had been complicit in that war as well. They don’t fool her though, don’t halt her in her tracks. She’s never really cared much for the dead – after all, she’ll see them all one day anyway. Instead she swings the scythe, trying to chase them toward Reszo, not really caring much about the end of all this and caring only that it was something to do.
Green Labyrinth
