Solanis
08-09-2017, 03:39 AM
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.
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
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
