All present, and the newest - loose-lipped - filly, all seemed perfectly at ease with the concept that a babe so young (so undeniably tiny), should be one easily and perfectly accepted, even normal. Her apparent wrong doing was unanimously voiced, contemptuously so, and Zahra hadn’t the energy to retaliate to the united dressing down of her well meant compassion and concern; without a word she slid from the company of the unfair crowd through the sucking slick of bank, until a healthy distance had been placed between.
Despite the thick humidity and the water streaming by, she felt a sudden desperate thirst; like the skin canvassing her had dried and the flakes begun to itch. She couldn’t have known the source - the Rift was unpredictable, though it did seem odd when she’d spent (easily) months, soaked through.
She should have known, should have remembered. Perhaps on a subliminal level, that was why she cared.
Once upon a time it had been Zahra who’d stood alone and half-starved like the colt; in all honesty, the yearling - the bronze coloured filly - had been the least of her concern, and barely a breath had been spared in that direction. Never the less, it was not they which had pulled her from the quiet of the dewy forest behind. Dimmer eyes rock to the formidable figure of the god, and the curious bonelights which they’d been told not to touch.
08-11-2017, 08:54 PM (This post was last modified: 08-11-2017, 08:55 PM by Volterra.)
V O L T E R R A
HE SAYS "OH BABY GIRL, DON'T GET CUT ON MY EDGES
I'M THE KING OF EVERYTHING AND MY TONGUE IS A WEAPON"
He arrives in time to see that chaos has already broken loose. It seems to follow Kisamoa around, and the irony is not lost on the mammoth man. He sees Varuna, the newest addition to his brood, defying the ghostly voice by knocking over the thing he'd been specifically told not to knock over.
Inwardly, Volterra delights in the sight. He wishes he could do the same thing; do everything he wants to do to Kaos without worrying about the consequences. In Helovia he would have done - it does not befit a warlord to hold back. In Helovia, he'd have defied Kaos and probably died in the process. That was what he was created for, after all. He'd have died a martyr's death, fighting for what he believes in.
Now? Now, he has to show restraint. Death is not an option, not when he has so many children to lead into this brave new world. He cannot give in to his instincts, and that is why he moves towards Varuna, his massive prowling frame moving easily through the crowd. He huffs a grateful blast of air towards Otem as he passes, glad she'd tried to stop the boy's actions, albeit without success. Perhaps Varuna will be more inclined to listen to his father.
"Best not irk him for no reason," he murmurs to his son, seeking to gently guide him away from the strange lights with his muzzle. Saying the words almost physically pains him, because it seems like cowardice - Volterra hates having to be careful, having to avoid death and curb his instincts in the process. His defiance is yet another thing he has had to sacrifice for the sake of fatherhood, because he now knows that it would be the height of selfishness and irresponsibility to die simply to prove a point.
Under his breath, audible to none but himself, he adds: "I can't lose anything else."
You'll remember me when the west wind moves upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky when we walked in fields of gold
Otem watched with narrow and slightly unbelieving eyes as Zahra let them be. From the second Otem was born, she hated being a child. She hated being young, and overlooked and under appreciated. Could it be that finally she was being treated as something more than a fetus with legs and vocal chords?
"My mom died too. But it wasn't Kaos. The Helovian Gods were the ones who started all this. They stole and murdered and lied. He was just trying to get his family and his land back.." Otem whispered to Varuna, her new accomplice. She eyed Crowley for a moment, unsure whether or not the horned man was trying to be helpful, or if he was just goading Varuna into doing something stupid for his own amusement.
It would be exactly that moment that the incredibly bizarre Castiella would show her ringed face. "That's Castiella." Otem whispered knowledgeably to her younger (but still unknown) half-sibling. "Some of her family died too." Otem's ram-horned skull bobbed at the pink filly's comment. Strange how Castiella and a lack of mother seemed to go hand in hand for Otem.
Just as Otem thought the gig was up (heralded by the appearance of her Father), instead of coming and speaking only to her, Volterra's ruby stare seemed to be directed towards the boy at her side. Volterra's muzzle passed over her, breathing a warm rush of air before moving onto Varuna. You have to be kidding me, Otem thought, half amused, half annoyed. Not that she was even thinking about a boyfriend at this stage in her young life, but at this rate, there wasn't going to be a single boy that she wasn't related to. Or girl for that matter. Other than Castiella...but the pink-ringed girl wasn't Otem's type. At least she didn't think so.
Otem moved with Varuna and Volterra, then nudged the black stallion's shoulder. "Dad look," Otem mumbled, trying to pull Volterra's attention away from Kaos. Otem spread her wings slightly so that Volterra would be able to see the dapples on her chest glowing with a subtle pulsing golden light. Otem grinned widely, proud of the new gift the Rift had bestowed upon her.
My heart's an artifice, a decoy soul
Who knew the emptiness could be so cold?
I've lost the parts of me that make me whole
I am the darkness, I'm a monster
The Rift has always been a dangerous place, and though he can already see vast changes coming to the ill land, Kratos believes that it will always be that way.
It’s the scent of something strangely familiar that draws him to the east, a childhood memory nearly forgotten that’s both bitter and sweet. It’s powerful, intoxicating and demands the attention of any who come close enough. Despite being born with it, Kratos has grown wary of it in his young lifetime, loathing of it and yet so very curious all at once. It has the gentle power to heal and soothe the most grisly of wounds, but it also has the strength to destroy entire Kingdoms and rip families apart completely.
Magic is what calls them all together, powerful enough to finally drive the relentless shadows from their realm.
Soundlessly the Estanzian son steps forward to join the rest. They’re in the midst of a childish squabble from what he could tell, but he pays the conversation no mind as he instead settles his gaze on the ever-changing form of the Rift’s guardian. Kratos had watched as Kisamoa vanquished many a soul from existence after opening the Portal that would lead them all from Helovia to here, but he does not hate him for it; he had given them all his warning, and in the grand scheme of things, it seemed he only wished to save his own home and save the Helovians from their own crooked Gods.
He watches, intrigued as he places the bonelights erratically on the shore and in the shallow river, which moments later seems to begin filling and running stronger than before. Curious.
“What purpose do they serve?" The mauve Prince speaks after a moment, eyes lifting to scan the length of the river until he can no longer see it. “And how do we cross the river?”
She was pulled to the site of Kaos once again. Greeted by the nearly familiar tug at her glowing teal chest. Gone was the feeling of euphoria from the strange land of gasses that confused her mind, and in replacement of those thoughts she had returned to the feeling of being lost without her brother, and her family. Yet she still approached, headed toward the river with the bonelights and Kisamoa working diligently on something. When the girl approached, there were many unfamiliar faces, aside for Castelia of course. The girl having grown some since the harpy helped bring her into the world and ensured her safety.
Yet Kiada remained hidden in the back, watching from the sidelines, carefully reaching down to press her shoulder guard with her soft velveteen muzzle to expand it across her body, and standing watchful with her bladed mask. Khairi swooped above her before finding a place to land, carefully watching Kiada’s reaction to Kisamoa, unsure of how to feel when it came to the God. On one hand, he killed and hurt so many of those she cared about at least at some point – to torture her upon her arrival, and gift her with apologies.
Sorrow filled the pit of her stomach before she let her gaze linger on the lights and the river, listening as an unfamiliar man spoke up about how to cross the river. “Can we help?” She questioned to Kisamoa, igniting the flames on her headdress in dark teals and blacks as if using his magic that was given to her would help her garner the God’s attention. She wanted to help him, to find out why he did all this, hoping deep down that he would be all she thought him to be. Hoping that he would prove her wrong in the terrible things he had done – hoping that he would change her mind.
There is energy in your veins, burning power - magic - and though you are none-the-wiser (it has never come to fruition), the feeling makes you restless, roused by a certain, unheard hum in the air. Little blue foal, your legs tremble as you drive a staggered path towards the soft beckoning beat, and your ears dance eagerly, excitedly, above the silvery wisp of mane dressing your poll. Those bright blue eyes through which you see the world spinning by, blink and flutter in the dank, dreary light, but the heart beneath your soft, matting pelt, pulses to the tune of oblivious bliss.
Thought of your mother, of your father have withered like the old, forgotten leaves of autumn and this humid, green wilderness which has become something like your home, stands as a constant distraction, should any flicker of memory arise to confront you.
Indra - your heart, your soul - he is missing once again and though you pine for him with every waking moment, every single inch of your being, better mortal necessities have kept you far from the search. Even without him, you have found that you can actually survive; but it requires all of your strength, effort and concentration. Foliage and bark have become the main source of your nutrition, but you need to be careful about which you sample; the rock velvet screams when you touch it and pastel-blue flowers bring sleep. Practice makes perfect, as you know.
For now, your stomach is happily filled, you have worked hard all morning, foraging, browsing and exploring those vast pathless corridors of trees (that never seem to sit in the same position, from one day to the next). You find that the rain has paused for the first time in forever, and you delight in the relative dry, even despite every brush against vegetation soaks you back through. Your steps are lighter, brighter - there is spring in your stride - and you dance on to the rhythm and that call in your heart.
It leads you astray, even further the trees, and to your surprise, that wall of doom and gloom has peeled away to the north. You gaze down the length of valley, towards a swollen river down below, and lingering together upon the banks appear to be a group of others; and beyond them still, a massive monster’s impression. Your tiny hooves defy the thrum of magic as it surges, and you hesitate, uncertain because He strikes a note of fear in y our young mind. For a moment longer, you consider, fidget the fine ashen quills otherwise fixed against your flanks.
But curiosity is a pressure you struggle to flout and it takes you merely minutes to canter forth and join their meeting. The first to find your eye is the small black colt met just a day or two ago, you bound towards him without restraint, with no reserve, for you very innocently presume him to be a friend (isn’t everyone?). “Hey Vuna!” your feathery voice ignites, and though the God behind him looms, commands and consumes your flighty notice, you plant your tiny body as close to the familiar figure as the big horse beside him will allow, shiver there unsurely, and watch.
You've thought a lot about that night under the tree, where rain fell down and left light on your body, and a figure just as fickle drew the dark from your heart. From the moment the amorphous, unpredictable God entered your solitude, you have felt.... not kinship, nor even understanding- something closer to pity, perhaps. Pity, rising like smoke from the simplicity of your anger, mixing with deepened curiosity and a need to know more, a want to discover.
It's not that you care what Kisamoa does - you care why. Because you don't understand anymore, and that frustrates you.
It was easy to hate him when he was just a monster, a murderous mouth full of snapping teeth. It's harder to loathe someone you've shared a conversation with - especially for such a sap like you.
So this the next time a crowd gathers, drawn by the presence of Godhood, you, too, find yourself on the bank of a dark river, watching a monster weave through the wake. Half of you wants to approach him; the other half is too anxious, too afraid of what you'll find if you continue to scrutinize your enemy. You compromise by staying on the outskirts of the still small group, trying to keep an eye on him while also avoiding detection (and no doubt failing, because between the moisture on your wing and the lightning on your back you literally glow). In the crowd you spot familiar faces, nodding and half-smiling at Volterra and Otem and more children who you can only assume belong to the Indomitable, because at this point you assume all children belong to the Indomitable.
Except, of course, yours- and where are they, your son and your brother, the ever curious pair?
You scan the crowd for their familiar figures, but in your distraction barely register the other ones you know. There is something - a flash of white and black and gold that brings up a memory from long ago, tickles and bites your brain. But before you can pair the shape of Zahra with the feather in your hair you catch another eyeful of Kaos and are drawn back to the events at hand.
You've drifted closer. Your efforts to remain on the sidelines have completely failed, and now you find yourself standing very near one of the bonelights, a cream and gold filly with a fiery crown of feathers questioning Kaos at your side. You glance at her, trying to smile, trying to wash the unease that haunts you out of your stomach and off of your face, trying to be the you you usually are, even though it's very hard to be cheerful when you have a feeling something both beautiful and terrible is about to go down.
Because part of you can't forget the thing you asked for, the gift you demanded of this crooked God, and the fact that he did not deny you, that, in fact, he promised to do what he can. And while others ask for answers, what and why and how, you find yourself wondering who - who caused this, who is it for, and if you're right, and if he's right, how deeply will you regret what you asked for? How much of the pain it is going to cause will be, undeniably, your fault?
Or will it be beautiful, perfect - everything you ever dreamed?
Probably not. It's probably going to be a shit show, and that's definitely going to be because of you.
Oh, Zero, you selfless boy - until you can take the fall for something. Then suddenly you become self-centered as fuck.
"Is this- are you-?" you ask the demon God, a furrow set between your eyes, hope and fear a warring force upon your face. You know he knows what you're getting at, what you're both desperate for and terrified of. Bone lights, a river of crying souls, a promise still not yet fulfilled-
Are they all down there, your lost ones? Is he going to raise the dead?
Zèklè
What if I'm far from home?
Oh, brother, I will hear you call
He glides on feathered wings from the familiar to the unknown. It seems that more of the Rift becomes available to them with each passing week, and it leads the colt to wonder just how large this place actually is. Helovia had been massive, and he hadn't got around to exploring all of it before his untimely shift to this place - what if the Rift is a direct mirror image of Helovia, a parallel world, a ghostly reanimation of their home land? That would imply that there's much more to be found, and the yearling finds this a deeply interesting concept.
He alights with a surprising gentleness that belies his great size. His sister and sire are already here, and it would be so easy to simply wander up to them and engage in conversation rather than suffer the social anxiety of having to approach somebody new and unknown. He casts his gaze around, looking for somebody appropriate to speak to, and his gaze lands upon a mare. She's a unicorn, and he thinks he recognises her from group events in the past. Rather than acting with the wariness or downright fear of most other people, she's instead offering her help to the odd conglomeration of creatures at the front.
This is enough to pique the volcano-boy's interest, and he wanders over to her with his usual bungling, graceless stride. "What makes you want to help him?" he asks. There's no judgement in his tone - there's never anything in his tone, really, save an unwavering monotone. He jumps straight to the point, without so much as an introduction or a hello, because such small talk isn't the kind of social etiquette that he understands.
08-12-2017, 08:51 PM (This post was last modified: 08-12-2017, 09:51 PM by Iskra.)
Iskra
Let it go, just let it be, you be you, and I'll be me
"Maybe she wants his favor," Iskra suggested, as he slipped up beside his brother Zekle who stood beside the fire-marked mare and the volcanic colt. He recognized her from a younger day of his on Helovia, when he'd gone exploring. He leaned around his brother to better see her, and smiled, but it lacked his usual vigor and soon enough his attention flicked back to the other colt. He'd seen him around too, mostly with Otem and Volterra.
"It's not a good idea to defy gods, especially him," Iskra went on, quiet, so as not to draw much attention. "I think we've all learned that by now," he said more solemnly - though clearly not everyone had as others still chose to test Kaos. "Listening to him, helping him, might be the best way to survive," Iskra mused, watching the beast work in the strange waters with the morbid artifacts. "I can't stomach it though," he muttered, unable to watch the demon much longer and so turning his gaze instead to the lightning trails of his brother; they were reminiscient of his mother. The same mother Kaos killed.
For that reason, and other reasons like Tae and Grusha, Iskra would never help Kaos.
Still, Iskra intended to survive, maybe suss out a weakness some day, so here was here, and admittedly was as curious as any young boy ever was.
Ampere might have understood Kaos' motives - you took my land and killed my gods, so I'll steal you from your home and kill yours (and anyone else dumb enough to defy). Iskra though, he just couldn't understand the notion of an eye for an eye, not if it turned the whole world blind. Two wrongs don't make a right, and so in that respect, however justified Kaos felt about the atrocities he had committed, he was not granted them. Whatever attempts he made now was just band-aids on bullet holes, and that shit doesn't help.
Holding onto something we don't need
All this delusion in our heads
Is gonna bring us to our knees
They were called and called and called again, a whisper, a throng, a thunderous decibel bleeding into their sights, into their souls, and they came once more. Melita was torn between wanting to just to see what was bound to happen next, and yearning to ignore his commands simply to rebel. Chaos reigned so gloriously, so quickly, so efficiently that it made her chest hurt, her mind spiral, her essence bleed over and away from anything that used to be precious, gentle, and tender – all she thought now were ferocious, angry, seditious things, etching and sketching her way into the molten abyss. She and Sila, tucked into her folded wings, followed the beckoning down towards a river, because curiosity won, because revolution could start here, because Clementine or her mother could appear, and she needed them safe. Her family and her friends, were everything – especially when they had nothing else.
She clung to the creatures she knew best – those of the Throat, the sands she yearned for (hot and sunkissed, not billowing torrents of haunting, poignant, eerie strains). Her skin still felt coiled, a strange humming continuing to drone from within (and she attempted to ignore it; but it was unsettling, ridiculous), while she swiveled towards Zero, Vulkan, and Iskra, unaware of any black honey dripping from her birdcatcher spots. She only caught the bits and pieces of their conversation, flicking her ears back and forth while her eyes watched the chaotic God brandishing his wares – incredibly uncertain of what was to become of them. Even as Iskra noted about defying deities, that was all Melita craved, to simply sow her way into sedition. But how long will we survive? was what she yearned to say – for simply shoving their head down and obliging the beast with everything he desired couldn’t be right either (not when he’d killed, not when he’d maimed). Didn’t Iskra want to fight back the beast who’d slain his own mother? Instead of giving it voice, however, she inhaled a restless breath of air, caught another line to throw into the void. “Maybe there will be a time when we have enough to fight back. We’ll have learned enough, been taught enough, and figured our way around this world,” she offered, she murmured, quiet and steady, because it was all she had. Survival was an overwhelming notion for any being.
Scint River
