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Home » Search » Roster » Whitepages » Records » FAQ » Guidebook
it's hard to float with pockets full of stones
Private Solanis 
Volterra
Currently championing:
#1

V O L T E R R A

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE YOUNG MAN'S HEART?
SWALLOWED BY PAIN AS HE SLOWLY FELL APART

Most of the Rift's forests feel safe in their familiarity; Volterra can lose himself in their depths and pretend he is still in Helovia, as long as he ignores the terrifying new flora and fauna. This forest, though, is completely different to any he's encountered either here or in Helovia, shattering any illusion that he has managed to hold onto. He's never seen ferns so large that they tower above even a man of his great size, or plants so bright they feel like they're burning his corneas out. Vadir's massive wings cast a shadow across the titan's broad back as he walks through this eerie new forest, his ears rammed forwards and his muscles tense in readiness for anything that might jump out of the overlarge undergrowth at him.

This is not home. The stallion knows this, try as he might to ignore it. Although he is a pillar of strength and fortitude for his family, matter-of-fact and stern as he leads them into this brave new world, when he's on his own he finds his resolve crumbling. He finds himself living in hope, embracing the naiivety that he desperately clings onto - the idea that this is only temporary, that Helovia is just on the other side of the portal, and that he will be able to return there one day.

There's the fact he still hasn't grieved for Isopia, either - is it denial, or merely an unwillingness to admit weakness in the form of letting himself crumble? Volterra is self-aware enough to understand that the reality of her death will almost crush him when he finally allows himself to accept the truth and mourn her, and he simply hasn't had the time to schedule in an emotional breakdown. He carries around the golem he's made in her likeness; an effigy, a monument. He keeps it close to him at all times, protecting it like he would a child.

It's next to him as he explores this strange new land, walking woodenly through the grass. Unlike most of his creations, this one has lasted longer than a few seconds, but it's desperately fragile and far too small to be of any use in battle - the warlord has no intention on using it in such a way, as he crafted it purely so he can always have a piece of his love with him. He talks to it often, but always in a hushed voice so as to avoid detection. Whatever would his family or the Helovian populace think if they were to discover Volterra - indomitable warlord, fiery Sultan, dragon-lord, the embodiment of earthen strength and stoic ferocity - talking to a living statue of his dead lover?

In the depths of this creepily bright forest, he feels safe enough to lift his voice slightly. "What do you think, kis hollo?" he rumbles to the statue, lowering his mighty skull so as to nudge it affectionately. It's too small, hard, stony and lava-filled to truly allow him to think of Isopia when he touches it, but his imagination is a wonderful thing and he can almost picture her alongside him, no doubt offering an intelligent insight into this land's odd ferns and yellow flowers. "What would you think of all of this, I wonder?" It's a painful reminder that he'll never find out.

There's a sting in his eyes; that strong, stoic face of his crumples slightly into a frown as he bites back the tears that burn in his throat. He will not let them fall; it's too soon for such an admission of weakness, even if there's nobody around to see it but Vadir.

image by neverr the glorious

Kisamoa
Currently championing:
#2
Power.

It’s intoxicating, really. In more ways than one to the conglomerate god. Five ways, to be exact. A way for each of these dead old hags in his mind, and one way for himself.

Forever contorting feet, currently clawed cloven pads, bite into the bright yellow flowers he had thought to collect not moments before—or was it longer? The god wasn’t sure; time was such an obscure thing. He was ancient (—or was he young? a child of gods, or the embodiment of them?—), so what was a few moments, hours, centuries?

Today, antlers curl from a feline-like face; though they churn and shift, never quite matching in shape, size, or color. Though his eyes are bright teal and decidedly cat-like, his muzzle is long and protruding, like a snake’s. His body, however, is oddly wholly cervid; though of what species is anyone’s guess, for it’s size and colors are forever changing.

But, really, why bother describing the god when he’s just a mess of shifting, spare parts?

Mis-matched ears flicker, teal eyes with slit pupils dart towards the sounds of a voice. A deep voice—nearly deeper than his own. Could he make his own voice deeper? Yes, of course. He was a god. He could do as he liked. A deep chuckle bubbled from his lips at the thought—but quickly died. He was doing something…wasn’t he?

As quickly as the thoughts came and went through his mind (with alarming speed and quantity since the Rift had been so throughly charged with Helovian magic), Kisamoa was suddenly alongside the prone dragon—no. That’s not right. The dragon was behind him (—above him?—), and it was a large black stallion laying down.

Acting much faster than his mind or words, two long talons from his mutated feet hook around the lava-creation which was speaking (or, more aptly, being spoken to). His long, deer-like limb brings up this small, frail statue so that he might inspect. But, in truth, he already knows everything about it—its creation, its meaning, it lifespan, its ruin, its power… but he just can’t quite remember it all.

His mind is a hive of activity; too many voices in too small a space. His body is electrified with too much power.

Though he is a champion of his beloved Rift, he was never meant to come into being. He’s simply a substitute for others powers…quite like this statue that teetered in his claws.

He squinted at it, “Remarkable day to be in Solanis, isn’t it?” It wasn’t entirely apparent if he was speaking to the statue, the stallion, or (perhaps) both.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
Volterra
Currently championing:
#3

V O L T E R R A

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE YOUNG MAN'S HEART?
SWALLOWED BY PAIN AS HE SLOWLY FELL APART

He is caught unawares, his reflexes perhaps dulled by trauma and loss; before he can act, his golem is snatched away from him into the mutated hands of a creature from hell itself. It's a hideous conglomerate of cat, snake and deer, or so it seems to the titan's eyes as he whips around to face it.

It wouldn't matter if the creature was the most beautiful thing on the planet, though - it's got hold of the Isopia-golem, and that's enough to make every hair on the titan's body stand on end as he makes a motion towards the demon. He stops himself mid-stride; any gesture of aggression and the creature could crush his golem like a twig in those disgusting dextrous hands, as the doll's fragile makeup is not strong enough to resist a full-force squeeze from anything larger than it. Its legs flail meekly in its assailant's grip, like an upturned spider. Reluctantly Volterra ceases his movement towards the thief, but his muscles ripple with tension underneath his skin and his ears are batted half-backwards, a clear gesture of danger.

"Put that down," he commands in that thick baritone of his, utilising every inch of his natural authoritarian demeanour to try and frighten the hybrid into releasing its prize. Vadir glides slowly down until she's perched tightly upon her bonded's back with her wings half-spread to enhance her already formidable size; smoke issues from her nostrils in a gesture of intimidation, although she knows as well as Volterra that she no longer has any flame to go with it. They can only hope that their evident dual power will scare the thief into submission, although the stallion wishes, not for the first time, that they still had a little red brother to add his potent ferocity into the mix.

Just another thing the Rift took from him. As if his home, his lover, his friends, his uncle and his dragon weren't enough, this hideous creature now has hold of the only thing he has left that ties him to Isopia. Sure, he could craft another one - if he didn't mind having the flesh seared from his body again - but he has grown attached to this one. Seeing it held in the demon's hands is almost as bad as if it had been Isopia herself in danger; except, unlike the golem, Isopia could have fought back.

image by neverr the glorious


@Kisamoa

Kisamoa
Currently championing:
#4
Bright teal eyes sharpen on the best of a stallion that seems to morph before his very gaze. The dark warlord goes from soft, sad (—grieving, but the god’s hive-mind isn’t ready for another round of guilt it felt with the last broken Helovian—) to tall titan made hard with angry threats. Amusingly (to Kis), this man is taller than he in his current, odds cervid form; though the god’s mutated antlers reach high above both male bodies and the gold dragon, as if compensating (for his smaller stature, of course).

His head cocks ever so slightly; is this what it is like to watch himself mutate? The god is self-aware enough to know that he holds no true form…but is watching his body change akin to watching this man grow with desperate ferocity? Did it affect others the way this stallion’s change affected him?

Movement in his claws brings his attention back to the small, flailing limbs of the lava creature. Volterra (—he knew his name? how? oh, of course he knew his name, he had gods crawling through his veins—) had demanded it be put down. And, Kisamoa being the creature that he was, instead started tightening those razor sharp claws around its wiggling, writhing middle.

…but something made him stop.

Mismatched ears flicker around, in an odd moment of uncertainty (though it seemed the Deceiver was having more and more of these moments, lately). Glowing teal eyes look up from the small statue, whose midsection was now in a viselike grip between his talons, and to the indomitable stallion…perhaps not quite so indomitable, in this moment?

Kisamoa looked from horse to statue, pupils becoming round rather than predatory; muzzle shifting between a few creatures in his uncertainty. What has his mind, now overcharged with Rift energy, noticed that halted his crushing claws?

He couldn’t find it…yet. So, he placed the small statue one the ground; but quickly caged it within his over-long claws that dug into the soil around it. “What is it, to you?” His voice, a lighter baritone than the goliath’s, surprisingly held no animosity or condescension in the question. Just a burning curiosity.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light

@Volterra
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
Volterra
Currently championing:
#5

V O L T E R R A

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE YOUNG MAN'S HEART?
SWALLOWED BY PAIN AS HE SLOWLY FELL APART

He can almost feel the golem being squeezed between those hideous claws, and he knows that within seconds, cracks will start to appear across the fragile stone surface. Any tighter, and it will crumble to dust. Volterra's teeth are clenched with concern, his eyes locked on the doll and every muscle quivering with intent. If this creature does crush the golem, then one thing's for sure - it won't be leaving this place alive. If there's one thing Volterra does better than getting his own way through any means necessary, it's gaining revenge when he fails to do so.

Then, something seems to halt the demon, and the creature looks between Volterra and the golem with a most unnerving expression in its eye. It places the doll on the ground and for a moment relief surges through the stallion as he thinks that the creature's game is finally up, only to have the beast's fetid claws encase its prize in a sharp, sturdy cage. Volterra's jaws set in a growl - he does not like being this powerless. He does not like having to give in to this creature's wishes, simply because it has hold of something that he can't stand to lose.

It would be so much easier for him to rampage forwards, mulch the creature into pulp with his hooves, then snatch the golem from the shattered remains of those hideous hands. Oh, that's what he wants to do, but something tells him not to. It's obvious that this thing is not one of the Rift's dumb, senseless beasts, all animal instinct and corrupted rage - it clearly has some element of sentience, and certainly has a taste for cruelty.

Its question bids the leviathan to snarl audibly, growing more irritated and concerned with every passing moment. Each muscle twitches with stored energy, and his ears are laced so far back they're almost invisible. There is not a chance that he is going to tell this foul forest-demon what the statue means to him. Not least because Volterra is not a wordsmith, and could not adequately portray everything that Isopia was and is to him. He can't articulate how much that doll means to him, and how losing it would be almost like losing her all over again. Maybe humouring the demon is the key to getting it back, though, so through clenched teeth the monolith speaks. "It represents somebody I lost, somebody I...." He trails off, the words snagging in his throat like thorns. "You wouldn't understand," he growls, punctuating his point with the angry stomp of a hoof.

image by neverr the glorious


@Kisamoa

Kisamoa
Currently championing:
#6
Volterra’s rage, evidenced by the pinned ears and twitching muscles and growling words, both intrigue and provoke the god.

He knows rage. He feels it burn from each of the four in his mind.

“Lost?" Kisamoa also knows loss. He knows the loss of physical form, this quartet from hell scream in his skull; he knows the loss of a land a world; he even knows the loss of a life—how many had he taken the day he sought to save multitudes more by opening the Portal?

He shrugged off those deaths, cervid shoulders suddenly slipping to lanky feline ones with the movement; and his neck became equid. They were unfortunate and avoidable, had these mortal creatures simply come to the Rift rather than trying to stop him.

“I wouldn’t understand?” One cannot miss the mockery in his baritone voice as he parrots the man’s growl. A dangerously amused grin crosses those shifting lips, “Try me.” Does he mean to provoke the very physical threaten from the man? Or does he mean to inspire confidence (hah)? It’s doubtful if even the god knows.

Shaking his head once more, trying to focus the many, ping-pong like thoughts that ricocheted with each new pulse of life through his Portal, his antlered head (—but wait, the antlers were gone, now—) refocused on the thing beneath his claws.

But gone were his claws, and removed were his hand, releasing the figurine once more. Oh. When had he done that? Teal eyes widen, studying the small bits of fire that leap out from the fissures his talons had made in the rock sides. Was he releasing it as an act of goodwill?

Did he have goodwill?

No. Maybe? Possibly. But probably not.

A sudden breath pushed out of his nostrils. It condensed into thick, black and teal-edged smoke that enshrouded the one-free golem. Though it didn’t seem to harm it—in fact, aside from clinging to the small thing, it seemed to have no affect on the creation at all. Yet.

Was this a test? A game? Who were the participants and what was the prize?

Or perhaps it was Kisamoa simply playing with all the magic the Rift had amassed. Even gods had to let off some steam.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light

@Volterra
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
Volterra
Currently championing:
#7

V O L T E R R A

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE YOUNG MAN'S HEART?
SWALLOWED BY PAIN AS HE SLOWLY FELL APART

Not only is the creature seemingly intent on torturing him with its reckless treatment of the golem, but now it is mocking him as well. The stallion glowers down at the bizarre conglomerate beast, wishing a thousand painful deaths upon it whilst knowing he is powerless to do anything about it. It is like a metaphor for Volterra's life in the Rift thus far - he has been gelded by his presence here, robbed of his ability to do anything worthwhile. He cannot do what he wants to do - attack Kisamoa, strike punch after punch until the flesh is ripped from his bones and he is committed to dust like so many others - because he cannot risk dying, not when he has countless children to look after and a dragon to search for. He cannot fight, because again, what happens if he gains a serious injury that prevents him caring for his children? His magic has been ripped apart and robbed of its power, Vadir has lost her flame, and Volterra has lost his attitude. His feral, masculine, give-zero-fucks arrogance that so defined him in Helovia. In the Rift, he has to tread carefully because one wrong step and it's not just his own life that he'll lose, but also the lives of ten, eleven, twelve defenceless children.

Volterra is no longer living for himself. He is no longer doing whatever the hell he wants, damn the consequences. He can no longer jump into battles without a care for anything but his own rapidly increasing strength, because now he has people relying on him to keep them safe. He does not fear death for himself, but he fears it for those innocent foals of his who will fall into the abyss with him if he isn't there to keep them safe. Most of them have no mothers; they only have him. And he is not enough. He is never enough, especially when he cannot be himself. He is a eunuch here, and he hates every fucking minute of it.

It is as though this foul creature has picked up on all those dark, hideous thoughts inside Volterra's head, and is playing with them. It only increases the titan's utter hatred, his desire to rip off the demon's head and dance in the bloodied remains - but he can't. This time it's not his children he's protecting, but a fragile piece of rock shaped like the love of his life, that he just cannot face losing. Not only that, but now the creature is demanding an explanation, and like a bull pulled along by his nosering, Volterra has to oblige else his golem will pay the price.

Then, the creature releases it. Volterra motions forwards, ready to snatch it up, stash it safely away, then indulge in some good old-fashioned fucking-up of his tormentor, until he hesitates. Why would the creature release it so easily? There must be more to it....so the stallion stands his ground, still burning inside, still roiling with rage and hatred. "If I tell you, then you will return it to me. In one piece." It is an offer that he hates to make, because bargaining is not in his nature. It is not posed as a question, more as a demand - he will spill out the contents of his soul provided his golem is returned to him, safe and unharmed.

image by neverr the glorious


@Kisamoa

Kisamoa
Currently championing:
#8
[ I am very sorry this took so long. @Volterra ]

Curious.

The cloud of death wrapped itself around the golem, and Kisamoa found himself watching it more intently than he watched Volterra—oh, he was not stupid, he was well aware of what the black stallion thought of him, but at that point in time, Kisamoa still had the upper hand. He could bound away with improbable speed, or melt into the surroundings, even manipulate them to his bidding, while Volterra was crippled by his soul struggling to adapt to the power flows of the Rift.

But make no mistake: Volterra would grow in power, and this, too, Kisamoa knew.

But for now, he was only a broken man, and Kaos felt safe, even though the things in his mind screamed bloody murder and hated, so viscerally, the shape of the golem. Well—he frowned a little, barely noticing how Volterra started forward and stopped. Three of the four yelled bloody murder.

"Of course," the demon agreed, and though he did not sound sincere, he did not sound insincere, either. His black-and-teal eyes spun, before honing in on the indomitable warlord again. The loss of his love had certainly subdued him, but the spark within remained—Kisamoa could feel it. "Did you know," he went on after just a heartbeat, "that she tried to protect Vourib—the bear? While the Helovians gathered to slaughter him, she fought for him." His lips pulled back in a grotesque smile, and then he fell silent, waiting for the explanation.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes