» Hauntings & Healings

KAHLI I am being summoned. I don’t know by what, nor by whom, but the feeling rejuvenates me, refreshes my senses that have been shrouded by whispers and voices. The moment of clarity leaves me looking to the west. I move forward at a canter, wondering what fun (or bullshittery) awaits, and as I enter the Labyrinth, our long lost beautiful Green Labyrinth, I see it. The smoke that has curled and crept and hungered seems to be pulled into a central churning heart, and though it may be a trick of the light, or influenced by the whispers, it appears as though eyes and teeth materialize within the darkness, forming a haunting grimace. A smile plays across my lips as I stand, ready to wait and watch (battle has never much been my thing), but that serene calm stops when I hear his voice. It is a voice I haven’t heard in forever, but I had heard it and praised it enough times before to know. An excited laugh burst from my throat, and it is probably the happiest noise I’ve made in years. He is here. He is here.  He is home. I leap away from my watching place, tossing my head wildly as I run towards my god and his power. Ooh ooh ooh this is going to be good. Despite the way the air quivers with violence and vehemence and terror, I find myself dancing through the havoc. I try to approach where Reszo sounds like he is, though it sounds as though he is everywhere at once. I want to try to get as close as I can as he attempts to protect us. The rift has come alive again, and it was more than likely correlated with the arrival of the helovians. Yet, they had caused this in the first place. It is their rightful duty to fall as sacrifices, sheep to the slaughter, to return our home to it’s previous glory. Though, something is liberating about seeing the western god chasing phantoms back to where they came from. But he is not protecting those who have joined the infestation; the helovian’s cannot, should not, find any sanctuary or protection here. Reszo is here to return this land to it’s rightful inhabitants. I hope that these foreigners are consumed by the shadows to sate their hunger and desire for magic. Shouldn’t he know? Shouldn’t he be allowing them to pay their sins, and protect his loyal followers? He should know what they did to his remains. He should know that one of these bastards is wearing is pelt. Some wear his teeth as jewelry. Some wear his blood upon their weapons and armors and wear it in vials around their throats. I come to a halt, scanning the frantic scene, and I toss my head. Laughter bubbles up through my throat as my magic rips free, and the laughter turns into a pained scream as my flesh tears and morphs into ghostly white and haunting mist. My yells are hopefully buried enough beneath the rumble of fighting. I step free of my binds after moments too long, and I appear as one of them. I am able to slip free of the trauma, ignored by the haunts, as I appear as they do. But I cannot remain invisible to all. “You did this.” The voice is young, flat, and matches the young face perfectly as it stares up at me. Tiny hooves are planted firmly in the grass, and as I stand before the child, I know that I will not be able to avoid the inevitable. He tips his head, milky eyes looking up to me through long lashes, though they are blank and empty. “What did I ever do?” “Your father was a monster, and you and your mother needed to be spared from his vulgar touch.” My voice is as blank as his eyes as I look past him, searching desperately for the non-existant darkened form of Reszo. “You did nothing but provide a means of punishment for your father. Besides, who knows what you would have grown to be? You could have been a sick monster just as he had been.” I look down at the form, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. “Now, why don’t you run along and play?” I leap away, draped in ghostly glory, dancing through my brethren. I feel the child hot on my heels, hear a seething hissing and snapping jaws. A quick glance back revealed something monstrous. Hm, fitting, the child of a monster had indeed transformed into a physically grotesque thing. “Reszo!” I yell, rearing, tossing my head above the crowd. My eyes scan desperately, fruitlessly, as I continue to seek him out. “Reszo, my god, my king! They have forsaken you, stolen you away from us!” I push forward again, yelling my prayers into the empty sky. “Please, don’t let them stay. One who walks among us now wears your pelt as armor, as a trophy, of what he did to you! He has disregarded your legacy. He has disrespected you, and your brethren, as well as us mortals. You need to do something!” I look for him, and my eyes are pleading. He is hope, he is redemption, he is our savior. He needs to deliver us from the shadows and return this land to it’s wild glory. This is our chance. I pray it doesn’t escape us. God help anyone who disrespected the queen

image || coding

Ki'irha

When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.

She walks slowly over the land. She is broken, and lost, and frustrated. Mud sucks at her cloven hooves, rain flattens her curls slick against the nape of her neck, chill buries itself within her midnight hide. She is a hostage within this new land, stripped of her hearing and pride so soon after being thrown into the vicious portal, which reached to catch her and her family, gnawing at them and their magic and belongings and the few last mementos they held onto from home. Nobody was safe from the Rift’s jealous forces. Not love, not family, not material possessions.

Wandering aimlessly, she ponders life. She considers allowing the mists to eat her, the same way she considered throwing herself from the peak of the Falls. It is this desperate devastation that has brought her to this place, this hollowed ground, where life was lost and gained and now ready to be lost again.

She doesn’t hear the powerful snarls that rip free from the long-dead wolf god, nor does she hear him as he a attempts to chase the darkness away. She doesn’t hear the cries of battle brewing, and she certainly doesn’t know that she is wandering into a cataclysmic rage of light and darkness.

But she does notice them.

Time seems to slow for a moment as they approach. She tips her head to the side, tears slowly accumulating and making her vision swim. They are dark at first, barely there, but they are real. She can tell.

“Mo… Mother?” She is still, halted, silver gaze looking over the mare. She is as beautiful as the day she died. Draped in cobalt, milky grey mane pulled back in braids, warm brown eyes. She smiles, dropping her shoulders, moving her head, as if gesturing for her long lost baby to come home. Ki’irha’s eyes move, touching upon the younger stallion standing by her mother. He is just as strong and in his prime as the day he was killed, still black as a slick of oil, head proud as if he had done something to earn that self confidence. He smiles as well, tossing his younger sister a playful wink, as if begging to spar with her again. Towering above the form of both of them is the blackened form of her father, tall and strong, carved from stone, pelt the color of the bed of dead flames, speckled with white spots. His steely gaze is warm.

“I dont… I don’t understand. How are you?”

“There’s nothing to understand, darling.” Her mother’s voice, clear as day, rings through her ears. The starlit finds herself leaning forward.

“Just come home, little sis, it’s time.” This time it is her brother’s voice that comes to her, and a single one of her white-dipped legs moves forward slowly, as if she is walking through deep water.

“Ki’irha, my little dark star, we’ve missed you so. Come back to us.” Her father’s voice is a low rumble, gentle, kind, carrying a tone that he had only spoken to her with when she was a filly. It had burnt away as he had spiraled. She moves forward again, with more purpose. She looks at them, tears streaming down her face, heart quivering, body threatening to collapse.

’You can’t go back,’ something within her whispered, ’There is nothing to go back to. Your family is not here. You left them long behind. Their bones rest past the threshold. Do not fall for more of these tricks. You’re smarter than that.’ She shakes her head, eyes closing. This is a trick, an illusion. She wishes to return to them, but she knows the sick magic that rises off of the back of the Rift. She cannot succumb to her desire for her family. Mesec is here. Vesper is here. They are alive and real and all that she needs. She cannot abandon them. Not again. Looking again to their forms, they seem to waver.

“I can’t.” Her voice is hollow, desperate, nearly a cry. “You are not my family.”

“Now, Ki’irha,” her father’s voice bellows, “Enough with this foolishness. You have mingled too long with those damned equines, those feather-brained pegasi. You need to return to us. It is more evident now than ever.” His form flashes dangerously, transforming for barely a blink of an eye into a demonized creature, all teeth and bloodied light and talons, before snapping back to the form of her father. Her brother’s form does the same, and his eyes narrow. “Come play, Ki’irha, I know you’ve missed true competition.” A smile peels his lips away from his teeth. They are too sharp, his eyes too bright. He now advances, coming towards her.

Now it is her mother who moves, shooting forward, knocking her brother to the side. Her eyes are tear filled, begging, and her voice is pure light in the twisting shadows. “Ki’irha, my beautiful star, my beloved child, my daughter of summer night. You need to fight. Fight for me. Fight for Vesper. Fight for Mesec. You need to get out of here. Nothing good can come from this battle.” A frightful bellow rips from her father as he leaps forward, driving his horn towards the grey-maned mare. “Godspeed, starlit girl, find the light!” A scream rips from her now as horn severs her crowned head clean off, and suddenly her father and brother are upon her, biting, kicking, driving her back. The girl rears and scrapes the heavy air with her hooves, and eyes scan her surroundings for the first time, and she sees others fighting as well. She sees one she recognizes.

Erebos.

The northern prince, for that’s what he would always be, battled his own demons, and she knew that she was not alone within this horrific mess of sorcery. She leaps forward, horn aiming for her father’s broad chest, rear heels lashing out towards her brother’s lean form. A single electrified eagle erupts from her own chest, flying wildly towards her father’s face, hoping to burn and maim and kill whatever it was that was attacking her. She sees a skull-faced brute, one who looked so familiar, attempting to herd his own demons towards a seething black wolf who appeared to be made of smoke. With no idea what else to do, she decided to follow his lead, and wielding her sword wildly, she began to push her two haunts towards the heart of the shadows.
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the Rift

They come to the Wolf God’s aid…or do they simply come with vengeance in their hearts? Perhaps, if Reszo would have been more real and his last vestige less infected by the Rift’s sickness, he would be intrigued to understand the subtle differences between Zahra’s wild wielding in the skies and Mbwana’s fearful cowering. He may be inclined to understand the warlord Volterra’s endless strikes and Otem’s subtle protection of himself and the cowering colt.

The one-winged phantom that plagued the first to arrive screamed with sharpened, voiceless jaws at the gold-bellied mare. They rip from Zahra her branch charm, morphing into their jaws and leaving it a wispy husk of itself. But this vengeful apparition is not done—oh no, those endless jaws open further in fury as the Eleos struck it in half with its wings. This specter of a past life reacts in kind, those ghostly jaws reaching towards the very wing that cleaved her in two; the ghost proved herself more than just an ephemeral nightmare as she consumed the mortal flesh of the white and gold-tipped wing from the stallion, leaving nothing but a ghostly echo.

Phantoms of many pasts swarm around a gathering of bodies—surrounding a cowering colt so afeared for his life as sanity slips to and fro, like an ocean tide. But there is no tide here; no pleasant waves to lull one into safety. Oh no, to the black stallion that tries to help the poor youngster, the these dead shadows swarm; they invade the nostrils, seeking to suffocate, and in their wake they leave their mark, streaming from Tamlin’s nares.

Around the colt in question, these specters hover, as if tasting his fear; and then they strike, blanketing the colt in a blackness so thick, it was tangible. They would leave their mark, reminding Mbwana of them whenever he felt scared.

And to Otem—the small filly so marked by favor of Kisamoa found no favor here. A single, small specter rose from the blackness surrounding Mbwana. So small—barely even equid, this demon hovered; it was a ghost of ghost, something killed by her mother in its womb so long ago… this misshapen creature stared for an eternity (—or was it a mere moments?—) at the living, breathing daughter…before turning its wicked, sharp, misshapen jaws on the very sprite that chased it towards Reszo. The vengeful shadow would make these sprites as sick as it.

There was one, far and deep within the howling, writhing mass of angry ghosts. A goliath of a man, Volterra, chasing a memory already quite dead. This great beast turns on them, a whirling and snarling mass of lunging teeth and flying limbs. So, these horrid specters seize his jaw and pull his tongue so far from his lips that it just may rip clean from its root. But that is not their game; oh no, while pulling on his tongue these ghosts root deep in his jaws, forever marking any he touches with his lips. And to his son, the lava leaking colt who does not attack… they leave him be.

Before the man with a skull upon his withers the mists condense; an image, a ghost of a long-dead Reaper appears…before fading into naught but death’s scythe. A single slice of cold, rushing air and it has cleaved from your chin the very beard that so proudly sprouts—in it’s place is a nest of writhing, misting snakes.

A mothers love is a funny thing… so pure and true. And so happily warped by these specters. The ghost stares, with wicked smiles, before dissolving into a thousand bees in the face of Melita’s stinging fury. Though they are silent, one can feel the thrum of their angry hum through the air as they burrow into the filly’s many white spots. There they will live, until the time comes to remind the young girl of their presence.

And to the admirable young man, Iskra, who gallant defended the bee-girl, these specters also swarm for a moment. Though they then shy away from Reszo’s blood that pulses so close to the god’s power.

Dragons are so much more common here, now; and there so these ghosts do not even hesitate as the gold-touched dragon hybrid delves into their depths, chasing a long dead spectre. They writhe with glee as this phantom of a mother whirls and turns on Amaris, suddenly draconic fangs sinking repeatedly into her scaled flesh. These ghostly wounds would leave ghastly scars.

One thing the remnant of Reszo did note was that Erthe, the cold and pearly hybrid, bringing a relic of his solid form closer. Red eyes turn, for a brief moment, from his endless battle with these vindictive, relentless wraiths; and they burn with appreciation towards the pale mare. The god’s fang flares briefly, a bright and searing red that burns away the shades as well as shatters into 3 deciduous wolf teeth.

A pale ghost stood before the gargoyle queen, Oizys. She stared, vindictive and estranged from her screaming, angry child…before slowly morphing. This specter grew huge and masculine, shifting between giant stallion and basilisk. Was it the young mare’s sire? Whoever it was, this angry ghost snarled and snapped its snake-like jaws at the spark-wolf that chased it towards Reszo—though the god did spare an approving blink towards the wolf creature. However, this hostile shadow would not leave such an affront go unpunished…and Oizys’ spark magic was to be penalized.

A whole mess of dead, dark souls descends upon Lyanna, Family, friends, and everything in between. They attack—but there is one in particular. A grey mare, whose horn is now whole, unlike what it had been in her true life. So this mare-spirit plunges her horn into Lyanna’s chest, leaving there a token of her fury beyond the grave.

These ghosts gleefully dance around Weaver’s scythe, untouched by its blood poisoning magic—as ghosts are bloodless. However, they do find the rune of death on her chest quite interesting; and there they infest for later times.

The great wolf god’s jaws pause in their snapping and snarling as a familiar voice calls to him. “My daughter,” the words are less words and more thoughts that echo through the mists. And they are sad, forlorn, as they answer her plea, “You must help me, before I may help you.” Though the god, forever bonded to his pack as any wolf would be, breaths gently in her direction.

Around the star mare’s horn, these ghouls skip and play. Their endless eyes never seem to leave hers, despite their many movements. One particularly vicious soul latches onto her horn and pulls and pulls and pulls—so hard that, for a few breathtaking moments, it seems that this ghost of her father will rip it from her skull…but it releases it, leaving her unscathed, save for a sore skull.

Finally, finally, with a triumphant and resounding snarl, these many ghosts screech one last, desperate and noiseless sound that is felt instead of heard. And then they are torn into a thousand mist droplets, shredded by the god’s teeth that are suddenly everywhere.

And, though triumphant, the wolf god is gone once again. His heart is dead as it was, with mere whips of angry specters left as echoes of the fury that writhed mere moments before.

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Reszo has gone, bringing (most) of the vengeful spirits under control! You may reply to this thread for closure; it will be archived in ~1 week’s time. (Also, apologies for the atrocious grammar in this post :P )

Specter Effects: {already added to records & decided by dice roll}
Zahra - Branch charm emits continuous black fog and no longer glows.
Eleos - Rips one wing from him, leaving a ghostly echo of it behind.
Tamlin - Black mist billows from nostrils.
Mbwana - Black markings grown and consume parts of coat when experiencing fear.
Otem - Earth sprites now intermittently vomit black smoke.
Votlerra - Now has black, slightly acidic saliva.
Erebos - Now has beard of black-mist snakes.
Melita - Black honey now oozes from bird-catcher spots.
Amaris - Covered with bite-wound scars that burn with black smoke when wet.
Erthe - Now has 3 deciduous wolf eyeteeth that allow for past/future scrying when arranged in a circle.
Oizys - Lightning creatures now shock Oizys.
Lyanna - Tip of glowing black crystal horn embedded in chest.
Weaver - Death rune on chest painfully burns red whenever scythe is used.
Kahli - May summon a black, blinding mist from transparent horns.

Zahra & Ilham

It was pride that turned angels into devils

Amid a storm of whipping wind and furiously lashing limbs, the painted man she’d called to drove forward  in a barrage of vigour and with eyes agape, wounded with confusion and budding ire, she witnessed his valiant attempt to force back the shadows. Ahead, the billowy, flimsy figure of the wolf, surely divine, snapped and snarled with savage intent, trying in vain to secure a hold on his renegade wraiths. 

Though confronting and inexplicably natured, the Rift was beginning to make a little more sense - it was a pattern, a sequence of events linked to the blatant destruction of four gods, many seasons ago. Even Zahra, in her isolated burrow in the depths of the old dark forest, had not been spared the gruesome reality of each battle. 

Perhaps the shadows were receding, slithering back like wounded serpents through the air; maybe they were regrouping…

The vision of the grey had all but dissipated, and Zero, Bird, their beloved faces were torn and savaged by the angry wind animated with each bursting movement. In a way, even though she knew the truth - understood their falseness - the golden bellied girl pined terribly to see them reform; her only friends in the world. As the stroke of her wing slowed its feverish pace, she took a second to glance down and witness the combined effort of all that had gathered. 

Still the god, the wolf, stood at the centre of the writhing, twisting shadows; still their crimson eyes wink and glowered in mad united rage, and Zahra wondered broodingly what it all meant - what the pillar of sunlight had meant that had illuminated the tigress on the rocks in the sea. 

As golden eyes surveyed the scene available through the swirling mists, the apparition of her mother redoubled, lunging forward with demonic grace to seize the branch that had once belonged to the one-winged mare. The spider-girl balked fearfully, pulling back midair with fleshly slowness (the likes of which could hardly mimic the speed of the immortal), but those ravenous fingers rob the charm of beauty and a trail of oozing fog follows her harried movements. 

"DA!?" she screamed suddenly, turning to find the freshly reformed  (from death), body of her father spiralling rapidly to earth with only wing flapping wildly, vainly, uselessly. Zahra plunged down behind him, tears streaking her distraught expression, yelling desperately for help as she called forth a cloud of humming insects - locusts - to perhaps ease the rate of his headlong descent. "SOMEONE!" Her frayed voice filled the air begging for help, "please! Anyone, he can’t fly!"  

She was going to lose him again...

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(the epicness xD I have permission to PP Eleos as Angel won't be back within the week, and this was too awesome to waste. He is falling to earth and she is calling for help)

YOU CAN'T STRAY FROM WHAT YOU ARE YOU'RE THE CLOSEST THING TO HELL I'VE SEEN SO FAR He flails against the ghosts, lashing against them with his hooves, his teeth, anything. He's aware of others arriving, of the screams that resound through the clearing as a thousand loved ones are brought back to life for the macabre benefit of whoever is controlling the ghosts, but he steels his resolve and keeps on fighting. Blow after blow is hurled towards any spectre that comes near him, and it's as though he's on his battlefield again, owning everything that he sets foot upon. Until the ghost flies into his mouth, grabs his tongue and pulls. He chokes, stopping mid-kick, and desperately thrashes his head to try and free himself from the malicious grasp of his assailant. There's little he can do, though, as too much movement could wrench his tongue clean free from his jaws; he is powerless unto his attacker, and for a warlord like Volterra, that is unforgivable. It does not suit him to not be able to escape on his own terms. It does not suit him to be helpless. But helpless he is, forced to wait and allow the ghosts to have their wicked way with him. Finally, they relinquish him. He pulls his dry, aching tongue back into his mouth and, in a fit of fury, aims another bite towards the offending ghost - as he does so he feels spittle drip from the end of his now-moistened tongue, and it burns as it leaves him. Where it touches the ground, it scorches a small patch of grass clean away; the stallion glances down, aghast, before redoubling his attacking efforts. It is no use. The ghosts are beholden only to the wolf god, and even he fades into nothingness once he has his minions under control. The Indomitable stands, stunned and speechless, his damaged tongue lolling slightly from his mouth and dribbling acidic saliva onto the grass below. He sees his children, Otem and her volcanic brother, and shifts towards them as fast as he can. "We must go - it is not safe here." As he speaks his mouth feels heavy and alien, as though it belongs to someone else. With insistent nudges of his nose, he tries to gathered his twin children together so they can leave all together provided they oblige.

Tries to usher @Otem and Vulkan away from the ghosts and out of the area.

They....help him. Total strangers, not members of his pack - they approach him, reassure him, try to bring him away from the black hole of ghosts that he's currently trapped in. Still his head bobs up and down, up and down, as repetitive as a metronome with the force of his terror - he'd never realised until now that he was weak, that he would crumble into a mess of stereotypical behaviour at the slightest sense of fear. He's never really felt fear before, not on this level. His reaction to it stuns him - he's surprised and disgusted at his own weakness. There's a stallion shielding him, when surely he should be the one protecting others? That's what Father would want....he wouldn't want this cowering mess of a son, this quivering omega runt. It's his prickled pride, more than anything else, that helps him out of it. Come on! You're braver than that, says a filly, a large and strong and normal filly who doesn't bob her head up and down, up and down like her life depends on it. She's a paragon of light and strength, and Mbwana lifts his twitching head to stare at her. "I am," he says, an echo of conviction. "I am." This spurs him into action, and with a burst of strength that he doesn't truly feel, he lunges towards the ghosts alongside Otem and Tamlin. Askari growls at his heels and lunges into battle as well, his overlarge ears flailing around behind him as he bites and tears at any spectre that comes near. For the first time they fight in tandem, and even though it's against an opponent that they cannot hope to beat, it feels good to know he's doing something, that he's not giving in to the head-bobbing and the terror. Then, it's over. The ghosts are gone, consumed by the wolf god in the distance, and all that Mbwana is left with is a frisson of his fear and a sense of pride that he managed to overcome it. Askari pants loudly next to him, limping slightly where he'd caught his paw on a stone in the fracas. "Thank you," Mbwana says to the stallion and the filly, his helpers, his saviours. Then he is gone, Askari by his side, running like his life depends on it as far away from this place as they can possibly go. M B W A N A THE DOG LORD

image by reli <3

@Otem @Tamlin

She does not believe in what the ghosts are telling her....at least not until one of them morphs into him. The resemblance truly is uncanny as the ghost shifts from a massive stone-grey stallion to a huge basilisk, its ravenous fangs reaching around to sink into her skin, her body, her throat. "F...father?" It just looks so damn like him that she's hardpressed to listen to the numerous doubts that flutter through her mind. It has to be him. No dumb spectre could conjure up that level of realism, from the massive coiling wrath of the snake to the raw menace in those cold, stone grey eyes of his. Only the harpies are missing. Father is never without his harpies, his great birds of death and mutilation, and it's only their absence that finally convinces Oizys that this apparition is still exactly that - an apparition. With a roar and a flick of her leonine tail, she dives towards her father-ghost, ready to plunge her triple horns into his heart. It's gone before she can, and she feels a twinge in the depths of her magic that tells her to be wary, that she may not have escaped the journey to the Rift unscathed. Her spark-wolf has fizzled away to nothing now, leaving the mare alone save for the shrieking mess that is Ker - deciding in no uncertain terms to fuck this shit, the gargoyle turns and flees the area before the Gods of this corrupted place can throw any more parents at her. O I Z Y S I'M NOT A HERO, I'M A LIAR I'M NOT A SAVIOUR, I'M A VAMPIRE

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tamlin

Well this was an actual fuck fest of confusion.

Tamlin cannot make sense of what is happening around him. He does not even know if he is hurt. His legs are numb from bracing, yes, but he has no idea if there is anything else wrong with him. Not until one of the ghosts, spirits or whatever the fuck they were, narrows in on his nostrils and just decides it wants to live in his lungs.

With a whooshing sound the dark ghost enters him - just as the colt and his dog slides away from Tamlin’s shielding body. He has time to see that the boy is holding his own (which is more than one can say about Tamlin) and then the panic takes a hold of the black unicorn. HE CAN’T BREATHE! He struggles for air, wheezing and thrashing, but no oxygen makes it through. Wild and round his eyes search for help among those gathered, but the boy has gone, as has the ghosts and Tamlin’s vision is already blurring.

His knees buckles then and he unintentionally drives his horn into the soft ground, body convulsing from the lack of air.

Aviya. Is this what dying is like? Do you know? he thought as he lay there. But Tamlin is not dying; he will live to see another day even if he does not believe it at this moment. Soon the black stallion is unconscious. If someone tried to help him in his panic it is doubtful he will remember it when he wakes up.

love is a polaroid

RoverBlitz | whimzi

Erebos

Erebos fought – some days that was all he ever did, digging into the void and trying to plunge his acrimony into its loathing contortions – and it didn’t seem to matter. The damnation he promised was nothing like the gods’ abilities. They ensured pain and devastation, loathing and abhorrence, and it seared, it burned, it scalded around his edges, while he pulsed, while he raged, while he fumed. In the blink of an eye, the potency swirling around him held minute meaning, an empty gun, an inept grasp on a slashing sword – because his eyes glimpsed over the ghost of his father, and he was still.

Frozen in time, back into the years where he was just a boy and his sire was the most demonic, awe-inspiring thing he’d ever seen; a beacon of admiration, of strength, of pride, of fortitude, and the scion had none of it now. He was naught like the Reaper, easily condemned by the swinging scythe, by the unleashing of treachery and wreckage, one more piece of prey to the butchery, the brutality, of havoc. The phantom seemed eager to remind him; torturous and horrifying, staring him down with his father’s penetrating, blue stare, striking into the air, while Erebos could only think, could only feel (he wouldn’t do this, he wouldn’t do this, this isn’t real, he wouldn’t), could only gaze in stunned, befuddled silence.

Not enough. You’re not enough the world shouted back.

He closed his eyes as the weapon came shuddering towards him. The General didn’t want to see the blade daring to close over his form, daring to pierce, daring to consign him to death’s door. Perhaps he wasn’t brave enough to see his death. Maybe he didn’t want the last image stored in his skull to be Deimos sending his son into oblivion.

The cold air whipped by his face, made him shudder, made him tremble, made him quake more than anything ever had – but he opened his eyes, he remained firm on the soil, upright, breathing, whole. Orsino was at his feet, cursing in rough growls and hideous, foul hisses, gazing at the beast’s maw as if there was something ominous, something wrong.

Then there were more hisses, and mists spiraling from the bottom of his chin – marked by Medusa’s hands, possibly saved by the relentless frame of his father, but not the cruel balance of this world’s fate – snakes intertwining themselves where his beard used to be.

And he laughed – laughed because it seemed so stupid, so asinine, so bewilderingly idiotic, tucking his chin closer to his chest so the rest of the world couldn’t see what he’d become already, in this den of asps and vipers.

I'LL SHOW YOU HOW GOD | FALLS ASLEEP ON THE JOB
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another mind, another soul, another body to grow old. it's not complicated. Otem wanted desperately to speak with her twin, but she was a tad bit busy at the moment. She had to make it appear like she was fighting the shadows, when really, her attention was focused just upon the wolf god. Still, appearances need to be maintained, so she briefly said, "Do you really know that? That finality means the loss of sentience and consciousness? Finality might just be the end of this-" For a moment her wings splayed to indicate all that was around them, "-and not anything at all to do with sentience or consciousness." And then the blackness around Mbwana began to swim and move towards her. For a moment Otem thought she saw the flicker of a face within the blackness, but discarded it. What was it called, when you saw faces everywhere? Where one pulled familiar images out of completely random patterns? There was a name for it, Otem was sure of that, but in this frenzy the word eluded her. It wouldnt' have mattered anyways, for Otem was wrong. There was the faintest trace of what once was within that smoke - like the after image burned into your eyes long after you've turned away from the light. Only it was Isopia who turned, and she didn't just turn away. She turned the light out. "It's dangerous everywhere!" Otem complained, outraged that they were just going to leave and let all this just...just go. The battle was clearly over, and yet the autumn-marked filly did not want to leave this war zone. She wanted to stay and argue with her twin about death if that's what it took. Something here seemed to scream in her bones. Something that knew things. There was knowledge in the Rift, and Otem would foresake all caution to learn what it knew.

_{art by Chloe!}


Omg I love you so much for including those details <3333333 You two are the best.