He shifted in the blinding light, rippling, blurring, nearly dissolving for a moment as the clap of power jolted him to the core—his eyes rolled back in his cervine head. It was so, so many things. It was obscene, that sweet rush of power, and it was terrifying in its intensity and depth. The Gods within howled, saw only the former, felt only the former, plunged into it.
It was only barely that he held on. It was only barely that he kept the currents steady.
And that was why his tattered heart picked up its pace, fleet-footed as the stag he resembled, running ahead of the tidal wave (—the wolf pack), tail up and eyes wide and trying to outpace disaster. It thrummed in the back of his throat, sickening, choking, a realization he could not deny: he wasn't strong enough. He wasn't good enough. He was not prepared. He gathered the scattered pieces of his mind, balanced in the churning mass of water and souls and raw magic, and braced for the next impact.
And it was So. Much. Worse. The ground erupted again, the quake roaring like thunder and death itself; fissures formed along the banks, and Kisamoa was thrown to his knees.
He was not the Master of Death, he had never been, and would never be.
He was only a killer, a Deceiver, a being with too much power and not enough sense. He was driven and conflicted, ambitious and vindictive, bitter, naive, spiteful and, somewhere in the mixture of agony and rage and fear, insecure. Uncertain. Set adrift in a world where his schemes would no longer serve him, where a cold, calculated plan did not seem the answer.
He knelt there for a moment, trying to get his bearings over the din of the gleeful gods urging him to drink, drink, drink.
They were crawling up. He felt them. He heard them, their cries of agony and fury, of confusion—torn from the blissful dark of death, thrust into a world of light, full of mortal spectators and unfinished business. Kisamoa coughed, spat up the water he had inhaled at some point. What was Death, anyway? He didn't remember.
He closed his eyes, and plunged his head in deep; he touched his nose to the flow of power and the rent in the earth below him, sought to catch hold of the wild, snapping edges of the magic, weave them together again, hold them close, anything to stop the spill of power—it was too precious, they couldn't lose more—but every time he found the edges of the wound with his mind, the earth shuddered and threw him down.
The bonelights began to dim.
He was powerless to stop it.
Kisamoa shot up out of the water, his wild eyes roaming the scene—spirits, too many of them, most of them indistinct, spilled onto the shores. Deep fissures funneled the soulwater onto the banks.
Ampere and Tae had coalesced, and he stared, in horror. This was what he had been afraid of. This was what he had known would happen, but he had fled before Zèklè had had the chance to take his warning to heart, and change his mind. Kisamoa had left him underneath the tree with only an unholy promise, one that bore the darkest, most rotten fruit. His jaw worked soundlessly, but light of a kind stole his attention. "You should not have done this," Isopia said, and the Rift agreed; the banks shuddered and quaked, the charged air pressing in close. "I know," the demon whispered, turning on his spot in the roaring river, "I'm so, so—"
He didn't get further. Erthë yelled at him from above. Otem yelled at her in return. He ducked his shadow-crowned head, undignified and angry and full of black, vicious loathing. Shadows, not of his own, spread around him like a shield obscuring his vision, and he felt it within him—a kind of confusion and gratitude, for there was Otem, defending him. Otem, daughter of the only one who had defended his ancestors. Otem, defending a monster.
He stowed the sensation in his memory, saved it for later, when the world wasn't ending around him. Darkness coalesced at his will, formed a compact, shapeless weapon, and he hurled it at Erthë with barely a glance. It did not hurt, not now, for it robbed her instantly of consciousness, but it did send her careening towards the far bank, and that might hurt when she woke up.
It was better, for both of them, that way, and safer, for her.
He didn't pause to watch her land; he didn't listen for the sound of her impact, afraid of what he would hear. So he ignored her, slathered the part of his mind that was aware of her in blissful darkness, and stared, wild-eyed, at what was happening in front of him. Ampere, charging at Zèklè. Otem, crying for her dead mother. Vengeful spirits clawing their way from the rents in the earth, surging like a tide swamping the banks of the Scint, hungry for the life they had been denied.
And more than that, things he did not wish to acknowledge, to comprehend, a certainty and fear so deep it made him feel sick and if you looked really, really closely, for a moment you'd see the black smoke trickling from his eyes.
Then the shadowbeast roused himself, and with a wordless, bloodcurdling shriek he unleashed blasts of furious darkness, shadowflames licked in teal; they gouged the earth as they spread out from him, smoked the river clear where they struck. Whatever lost souls they touched disappeared, wrenched back into the abyss they had come from, and the rushing water covered the riverbed he had so briefly exposed (—it had looked like bones). Kisamoa drew another breath, prepared to unleash another volley of his furious vengeance, his guilty conscience's need to protect, but he didn't get very far.
The ground trembled again, shook like it tried to buck the mortals off, and as he fell to his knees again, the risen waters overpowered him; they sloshed over his back, along his neck, pushed at his haunches, held him down. He struggled in the vice-like grip, he struggled like a wild animal in chains—he struggled like the world's survival depended on his freedom, and maybe it did.
His strangled cries were silenced by the angry roar of awakened spirits. His massive form was dragged beneath the churning waves, pressed into the rent between the bones of the world.
Beneath the river's raging surface, his heart beat, panicked, in its cage.
Not even Kisamoa was above death.
But dragging him beneath did nothing to make the spirits relent—if anything, they attacked with more fervor, relentless and merciless, wearing the faces of loved ones but wreaking nothing but destruction.
ERTHË is knocked unconscious and thrown on the far bank. KISAMOA is dragged beneath the river and is out of sight. The spirits are amassing and some of them are ANGRY, so you're more than welcome to play a spirit of your dead character/s from Rift Havoc or just from your own account (if said account is present), or just make one up in your posts! You can also ask for the Rift Presence to throw something at you.
The ground erupted, fissures growing and screams filled the air. Immediately Kiada’s ears pinned back to her skull as she looked upon Kisamoa in the distance, wondering what the god had planned. Did he plan on simply killing all that remained? It didn't seem like a wise plan, to say the least. And so she stood, watching, as Helovians appeared from the river and listening solemnly as beside her, Zero was trying to speak with them. She glanced to him and the wisp, noting the familiarities between them and curiously wondering if they had been family. But then Isopia appeared, a creature the fire girl knew, despite only briefly. Curiously, she stepped forward, internally debating whether to protect Zekle from the oncoming barrage or try and make Kisamoa stop this.
As her head lifted and ears perked toward the god, she noticed Erthe flying above him in an attempt at attacking before she was flung from him. A child spoke out, but it was hard to hear over the screams and the blood pounding in her ears. Her sapphire gaze tried peering through the growing ghosts to spot Kisamoa, to see if he was attempting to stop whatever he had done. Much to the girls horror, however, he suddenly dropped beneath the water. And she wondered if he planned on leaving them there to handle it, or if it had simply been too much for him. She had to find out, and if he chose on leaving she wanted to drag him back, to make him make this stop. But she didn't know where to start.
And then the harpy had an idea. Her faceplate remained on her face, glowing the very same black and teal that Kisamoa’s previous attack had been, and she inhaled deeply - for stupid idea was about to be born. “Get the children to the back of the banks!” Kiada barked to no one in particular. Then, she pressed her shoulder plate as it expanded, covering the majority of her body, stepping forth toward the waters before she willed her rose gold spine that sat along her back to expand as well. She ground her teeth together as the blades pierced her skin but covered the rest of her body, small sharp knives stuck out from all her sides. An attempt at keeping herself safe as she chose to help Kaos yet again.
She got closer to the water, trying to avoid the majority of the fissures and ghosts as they appeared, ducking her head closer to her chest so that the blades that surrounded her body could do their work. She thought for a split second that her tornados might be a good idea, but she hadn't tried them since coming to the Rift, and she was smart enough to realize that fire and water didn't mix in any way. And so she remained, braving the waters and the bonelights, moving toward where she thought she saw Kisamoa go down, hoping to either help him, or force him to come back and make the spirits stop.
Kiada decides YOLO and uses her armor and blades to protect herself to try and find where Kisamoa went. Feel free to have any ghosts attack her, she's pretty covered with armor but hurt since her winged blades puncture her skin xD might be fun :P
TROY FALLS A THOUSAND TIMES,
IN EVERY DREAM I DREAM.
(LIKE ASHES, LIKE ASHES,
LIKE A STAR BURNING OUT.)
08-16-2017, 06:36 PM (This post was last modified: 08-16-2017, 06:37 PM by Castiella.)
The boy got what he deserved. His face soon glowed with an eerie appearance that made the girl giggle softly. He was warned, and she does not feel sorry for HIM. Otem had dipped her head to the peachy girl. Her ringed muzzle smiled softly turning her attention to Kaos. He was quiet. Blood drenched orbs quietly waited and watched the monstrous beast. So many others showed up, and the girl started to squirm and move away from each body. Castiella stayed near Otem. She was the only one there that she knew. She was her only FRIEND that has appeared.
Words filled the air, but Castiella could not make them out, but it sounded old. It sounds like a voice from HELL
Her massive blood colored wings clamped her sides. Emotions raced through her mind. Should she feel happy, scared, damned, or excited? Her masked skull tilted with confusion, and a smile. Those two always went hand and hand when it came to the damned girl. Her lungs filled with the warm moist air. It smelled like it was full of magic, it smelled like fresh rain, and it smelled like... DEATH? Her head titled with a small chuckle. A cheshire grin fell across her maw. Her heart fluttered within her little sparking chest. Golden arcs jolted across her pelt showering down onto the ground. Then all HELL broke loose.
"Zeroooo." Castiella raised her masked skull. Blood colored eyes widened watching a ghost appear from thin air. Her body was filled with electricity, and her voice was like a banshee. She giggled watching the spirit flew towards some helpless soul. Then another appeared. Her condition was... rough. Maggots filled her ribs, and the girl was zombie like. Oh, how much fun was this! Chuckling she looked to Otem, but her smile dropped from her maw. It felt like a body from her masked face. The autumn filly looked as if she saw a ghost ( ironic right?). Blood wings clung to her bodice as screams of horror filled the air. Shrieks and shrills faded into the background as crimson eyes lock upon the one Otem called MOTHER.
Everything happened so fast, Otem was screaming at a snow kissed woman. A hard swallow made it past a lump in her throat. Castiella was frozen, and unsure what to do. Earth spirits rose to protect the monstrous god. Castiella did not hesitate to send roaring birds of electricity towards the white girl. She was not sure why she was standing up along the side of Otem. The mere thought confused the girl causing her to just look over to the autumn girl.
" Otem... " Her voice was oddly soft. " It... might not really be her... The spirits are vengeful, relentless, and they are not from this world. "
Her voice faded off into a soft whisper looking towards the ghostly woman. This place was fucked right up... and Castiella loved it. She loved every second of it, but her FRIEND was hurting, crying, and broken. Something in her blackened heart caused her to show a weird emotion. Something that Cas could not replicate even if she tried her hardest. True emotions could not be mimicked, not even by the best actors. Castiella stood calmly in the madness ( for once in her life). She wanted to say more, but she just reached out her muzzle to try and touch the shoulder of the bay girl ( if she would allow ). Blood colored eyes watched as Kaos disappeared into the river. Fuck, that is never a good thing.
08-16-2017, 06:51 PM (This post was last modified: 08-21-2017, 01:56 AM by Patrick.)
P A T R I C K
Others arrive around him and he hardly takes any notice, perhaps because he is too disappointed in the lack of familiar faces... or at least, the lack of the specific familiar faces that he desires to see. Then the creature poised over the water begins to expand? No, it is shadow growing around the already large frame creating a storm complete with thunder and earth quakes. Patrick is nearly shaken off his feet but with legs splayed out, like a newborn foal, he manages to stay upright. That is only the beginning. Next, that creature begins to speak. The words are guttural and the few that can be made out sound more than simply foreign.
Then there is blinding light, deafening sound and an explosion of darkness that, oddly enough, brings life... or something resembling what used to be life. Patrick gets a good look at the drippy mess of what was once the proud sultana of the Dragon's Throat as she lunges viciously above the crowd towards one specific onlooker. His muzzle wrinkles up and his lip curls at the sight.
"Grose!"
Man, this can not be good. Not that I am exactly afraid mind you, but common sense -yes I have grown a little bit of that- says there are times to fight and times not to. I don't even know what the heck this is so how am I supposed to fight it? Besides I am not interested in dying when I haven't even managed to learn anything about this place, or what happened at home, or why in blazes I am even here. Yeah, definitely time to go...
With a grunt, the young male begins backing up his steps growing faster with each inch traveled. The retreat doesn't last long before he is suddenly stopped by the feeling of hot breath high on his rear legs. Turning his head he finds a colt (Mbwana), clearly younger and, for the time being smaller, than he is but solidly built and displaying an interesting pattern reminiscent of some wild, prowling predator. The boy is accompanied by a... dog? It is hard to tell for sure but the shadowing animal appears canine. Patrick blinks in surprise then offers a quick, short dip of his head in polite acknowledgment.
"Your pardon, my mistake."
His voice is rough from disuse even at this murmured volume but there is no lack of sincerity in the words. He has always tried to be polite to everyone regardless of age. For a moment he eyes the other, maybe trying to determine if he had actually bumped him or just come close. Still undecided he gives an apologetic shrug and turns to move carefully around the pair. He has just gotten clear and started for his escape route when a white blur (Erthe) shoots from the sky directly towards the instigator of this mess. Watching, frozen, with wide eyes, he follows her trajectory and his mouth begins to gape in disbelief.
"What...?! Idiot!"
Not that anyone, except maybe the boy from a few minutes ago, would hear his admonishment. He should be using this added distraction to make good his escape but the scene seems to captured every ounce of his attention like an impending train wreck might. Of course the subject of the blazing bullet's attack retaliates and of course, it is a force overwhelming to a mere mortal, however strong or brave. The watching blue eyes follow her again as she is flung across the mighty river to sprawl unmoving on the opposite bank.
"There, see! Stupid..."
Despite his callous words, her impact makes him wince.
I don't even know this reckless woman, I don't know why I am bothering to care... right, no, I don't care. No reason to. Just need to get out of here. But now another woman is shouting about children and I remember seeing all those small forms right up near the front of the pack. None of them are related, or even really known, to me but... at least two of them are Najya's children, if I remember correctly, and she was always good to me. Gah...
"Shit!"
With a sort of groan, he drags his feet moving nearer and studying the pack but there is no easy way for him to get through and back out again. His gazes roaves along the edges and falls once more on the wild looking boy (Mbwana) and his companion. Patrick has never known what it is like to have a companion himself but he did grow up experiencing their usefulness and he is certainly prejudiced in favor of the canine variety, given Isabella's favorite form. After a thoughtful pause, in which he must have decided that he doesn't care how much the other might or might not be annoyed with him, he hurries over to the pair again. Clearing his throat he begins speaking in a companionable, though still rough, voice.
"Bunch of littles caught in that mess... think your friend could lead some out?"
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"
It is amazing how all hell can break loose in a fraction of an instant. One second he is talking to his daughter whilst arguments rumble out around him, and the next....
The next, the dead are walking among them.
First there's Ampere, but Ampere like he's never seen her before - she's held together by spark, as though she is the storm itself made into flesh and bone. Then comes Tae, maggots sprinkling from her sides, her furious eyes locked on him, as though he is the one who condemned her to her grave -
He should have been prepared for who came next. It could only be her, couldn't it? Nothing can prepare him for the sight of her, though, the miracle of his precious Isopia brought back to life. Unlike the spirits that fought against the wolf god, this imitation of her is....as close to perfect as he could have imagined. There's no roughness around the edges, no blurred lines to imply that she's anything but real. She's never looked more alive, or more beautiful, and he finds himself taking a slow step forwards as though pulled by a magnet. "Kis hollo," he breathes, and there's so much pain in that voice that it's a surprise it isn't expelled from his mouth in a shower of thorns and broken glass.
Volterra has always stood by the fact that he didn't fall in love with Isopia - rather, he glanced down one day to find himself mired in it. Falling implies that there was one solid moment that made his heart yearn for her, but that's not the case. Theirs was a slow burn, a gradual build from strangers to friends to best friends to more, and with each meeting, Volterra found his feelings growing from a seed to a sapling to an indomitable oak, quelled by neither wind nor age. Saying that he fell in love with her seems to devalue what they had - it almost makes it sound accidental, like a byproduct of something else. No, what he feels for Isopia....it transcends words, outweighs emotions. It just...is.
When he sees her, though, he suddenly understands what it means to fall. He's tumbling through history, from their first meeting to their last, and the utter, unflincing love that wells up inside him is almost enough to bring him to his knees. He moves closer to her, ready to extend his muzzle and touch her, to feel her skin beneath his own once again - the chaos raging around him doesn't matter, nothing matters except the fact she's back.
Until he sees Otem, and hears her plaintive lament. The sight of his logical, intelligent and usually unflappable daughter being so easily taken in by the sight of Isopia....it sends his stomach to squirming, and his heart to aching. It also focuses his mind, and sends a cold lightning bolt of knowledge straight through him. Isopia cannot be real. As much as he wishes she was, and as much as he'd fallen for this trick last time and earned himself black acidic spit for his troubles, he knows that she is dead. He saw her die. There are many things he doesn't understand, and this land contains magic more powerful than he could ever imagine, but if there's one thing he knows it's that death is forever.
This isn't her. He wants it to be, oh, he'd tear off every part of his body and lay it at her feet as a sacrifice if it would only bring her back to him, but deep down he knows it cannot be. He also knows that Otem, his precious daughter, one of only two remnants of Isopia left upon the earth, is putting herself in mortal danger by approaching the spirit of her mother. There's savagery raining around them, Kisamoa has been relegated to the waves and there's more spirits erupting everywhere, and Volterra knows that he has to protect his children. It's as clear as crystal to him; he cannot fall for the tricks of the dead when there's the living that need his help.
After all, what would Isopia want - for him to pine after an illusion of her, or for him to stand up, do what needs to be done, and protect the lives they made together? He knows which one he intends to choose, and that's why he bids Vadir to go and place her massive golden bulk in front of Varuna, protecting him from anything that may seek to harm him. There's Vulkan, the strange boy who had until now been arguing with a group of others - he reaches for his magic and bids a small wall of earth to lift in front of the tribrid colt to stop him approaching his dam. It's nowhere near the mighty structures he could create in Helovia, as the Rift has castrated his magic with barely a thought, but it's hopefully enough to stop the boy getting hurt by a possibly vengeful spirit of his mother.
That leaves the warlord to launch himself towards Otem, even if his legs feel like lead from the weight of his grief. "Stay back, Otem - it isn't her!" His thunderous voice echoes across the clearing, and his hoofbeats smack out an earthquake on the ground as he throws himself towards her. Upon reaching her, he moves to place his muzzle against her shoulder and hold her close, whilst his eyes linger on the image of Isopia. "I wish it was, Otem, but it's not." He shifts his bulk in front of his daughter, in front of this little segment of the Mountain that really is alive, and tries to deflect the blows of any ghosts that may seek to attack her by taking them onto himself.
It is a sign of quite how skewed the yearling's priorities are when he actually feels a pang of annoyance at the arrival of the spirits. He'd been looking forward to a good debate with the crowd around him, had been excited about hearing their opinions and listening to the young mare's attempts to defend herself, but he's to be disappointed. He stands there, feeling rather cross, as the spirits erupt from the ground and snatch his crowd away from him. The young Kaos-allied mare doesn't even have the decency to answer him before she disappears off, leaving the volcano-boy feeling most peeved.
With a turn of his quad-horned head, he scans the area. There's spirits he doesn't recognise, and then there's suddenly one he does recognise. Now, this is most interesting. Whereas the spirits last time had seemed like rough approximations summoned for the pure intent of attacking the living, this particular incarnation of Isopia looks genuinely real. Vulkán knows that it cannot be her in person, as she was disintegrated in Helovia - that only leaves the possibility that it's another cheap attempt to harm the living, or that it's what remains of her spirit.
The latter is an interesting prospect. The colt has always believed that death is final, and that there's no such thing as an afterlife or spirits. If this is his mother, though, then he will need to re-evaluate everything he believes in. Mildly interested, he takes a step forward - only to find a small wall of earth in front of him, summoned by his father. Perturbed, the colt spreads his wings and uses those to head towards Isopia instead, as though the earthen wall is merely an inconvenience.
Most boys would react with something deeper upon seeing their dead mother - grief, sorrow, misery, happiness, anger, anything. In his chest, in his mind, Vulkán can almost feel....something, like an ache, like a pit, as though there's a missing piece that has suddenly been returned to him. This emotion is so unfamiliar that he casts it aside, however, focusing instead on his intense curiosity. He folds his wings and lands heavily by Otem, who is being shielded by the onyx bulk of their father. Otem seems to be believing what her eyes are telling her, whereas Volterra - who, bless him, isn't the sharpest stick in the tree - is telling her the spirit isn't real.
"Now, that is a matter of contention, I feel," remarks the lava-colt, ambling up to his sibling and father as though they've simply met over a tasty patch of grass rather than in the middle of a ghostly apocalypse. He flashes a mildly interested glance over to Isopia, marvelling at the fact she's even acting as she would have done in life - focusing on the task at hand rather than greeting her family. It's why he always got along so well with her, her vast intelligence and the fact that she, like he, is willing to look past emotion and into common sense. "Last time, the ghosts seemed summoned from the memories of the living people around them. These spirits, though, do not seem to be conjured for anybody in particular - that leads me to wonder if, perhaps, they really are what remains of the dead. The evidence for an afterlife is dubious at best, but the existence of these spirits may prove that we do live on after death. They are not animalistic imitations like the creatures that attacked us - they seem to be acting just as their living counterparts would, which makes them either real or a very convincing imitation." He tilts his head, hoping at least one of Otem or Volterra will engage him in a proper, well-reasoned discussion.
Isopia stands semi-encased in stone strangely still. She is like a single candle that refuses to so much as flicker during a hurricane. Her eyes, bright burnt gold seem to swell with a benevolence that doesn't suit her at all. I know. I'm so, so- Isopia's quad-horned skull dips gently as if it is within her power to somehow absolve Kaos of this grotesque oversight. It isn't of course, which is largely what makes her current countenance so strange. So disquieting. "We all have things to learn." She offers ambiguously, sounding as though her words might carry some hidden, heavy and ancient meaning that only Kaos will understand.
Mom, please-
Isopia's eyes unfocus for a moment and her body stills. It is as if she is listening to something very far away; mentally trying to tune-into a radio station that is full of static. Her eyes temporarily narrow as if this might help, and as Otem wails again, one of Isopia's ears twitches ever so slightly.
Mom,
Finally, the demi-goddess turns her head away from where the river has swallowed up the young god. She stares at Otem as if looking at a mirror so dusty that it's impossible to see what the reflection is meant to be. Again her eyes narrow and she holds her breath, fishing around in the vast expanses of her mind for ..
for-
family.
Understanding sparks in The Mountain's gaze and her eyes focus. "Otem. She murmurs, then allows herself a moment to scan the crowd for the others that she's left behind. Mauna and Vulkan. .. Zero and Volterra, Amaris..Alysanne..Yael.. that Isopia's list of names to whom she owes a goodbye is so long is rather astonishing given how she lived her life, but then again those listed were far from ordinary. "You are far stronger than you know." Isopia whispers to her daughter with all the warmth she has ever been able to muster. "You will be alright without me."
Fixed in place by the stone, Isopia turns to seek out Vulkán who has positioned himself rather stoically by his twin. She marvels silently by how similar and yet different the two children are. "You are quite right Vulkán, I am not an illusion, but death ... it is not what you think it is." Her smile falters for a moment, "The blood of my father helps to shield me. It is why I am not like her." Briefly Isopia looks to Ampere; thunderhead that was. "But I cannot stay. Now listen to me, wisdom and knowledge are different things my clever boy. Only experience grants wisdom, no matter how knowledgable you become. Do not forget its importance."
Stone begins to grow up Isopia's legs, just as her magic had allowed it to do when she was alive. Looking down, Isopia regards this change with mute curiosity, contemplating silently and quickly what the implications are. time is running out
But it wasn't, not yet anyways. Only the old gods knew when time would run out. But for Isopia anyways, time was running short.
Unlike Volterra, Isopia is not marinating in memories. Stretched long by the moments of her death and all of the impossibly manner moments between that and now, Isopia has had long to ponder her life and her relationships. In her current spiritual state she is not wounded by Volterra's many lovers the way she was when life filled her veins. She has seen things in death that make her incapable of feeling that sort of resentment or loss anymore, and only now feels love for him. "Volterra." She breathes, her long eye lashes coated with small pinpoints of tears which catch the light in her golden eyes. "Love them." Her lips tremble slightly as the granite moves up her shoulders to cover her back and begins to work out to her wing tips. "I will be with you in the rain and the earth, and when all of your battles are won, join me...but that time is not yet. This place is not like Helovia, treat it as such." Her lips close and her heart breaks. There hadn't been time before to say goodbye, there had only been her responsibility. She had given in, and death had been easy and without emotion. But now was so different. "I love you. Always and forever."
Quickly the rock takes the base of her wings, forcing Isopia to cut short what should have been a much lengthier goodbye, for there are others to whom a debt is owed. Isopia cannot see any of those who she would consider friends, and so she tries to catch her youngest child's gaze, and to hold it, since she can no longer move to meet him. Unsure whether or not her magic will have come on this momentary respite from the afterlife, Isopia tries to conjure the protective dragon-shaped masses of earth to protect her son. "Mauna. I left you too soon." She calls, her voice striding through the chaos like a warm breeze. And then the moment is spoiled by Isopia's pause, for she doesn't know what else to say. She hardly knows the small life, born of earth and lightning. Not one for emotional sentiments anyways, Isopia merely shakes her head, internally musing what a terrible parent she has turned out to be. "Just be good." She whispers, opening her eyes which had been closed momentarily to block the tears which wanted to fall.
time to go, time to go
time
.....to
....GO!
"ZERO." the demi-goddess that was calls out, trying to find the eyes of her sunbeam friend through Ampere and Tae's furious advances. "COME WITH ME-" Zero had been there when she was named, when she first explored. He'd been there for her through heart aches, mistakes, reunions and more mistakes. He'd listened, learned, and loved her for everything that she was and had never wished her to be anything more than that. This world wasn't for them. There were worlds other than these to explore, and Iso's heart yearned to share the freshness of the afterlife with her oldest friend. "The whales Zero!" She tried again, although now the granite had begun to work up her throat and speaking was beginning to be difficult. "There are whales that carry entire worlds through the stars! Whales who name stars, like Pushta named me! Zero!" Her cries were like those of her daughter, youthful and pleading. She needed him with her, for who else was there for her, but him? Her twins needed their Father (as did the rest of his brood). Mauna would have Iskra, and the two would take care of one another.
"Come with me!" She called again as light begun to burst from inside of her rock-body. The Mountain's eyes were golden and saucer-like as they frantically but silently pleaded. She had no words now, for the stone had closed the muscles around her throat, but her eyes - her eyes still spoke volumes.
As more spirits poured from out of the river with Kaos still enveloped by his mistakes and hubris, Isopia new that her time had come. Light bled from her stone body as it began to crack and crumble. Zero would either come into the light with her now, or she would spend eternity after eternity waiting for him - and the rest of her family - to join her.
08-16-2017, 10:31 PM (This post was last modified: 08-16-2017, 11:06 PM by Varuna.)
The big shadows cranes his neck around you. His skin is warm and comforting and you press your body into him, releasing your sorrows as you bury your face into his fur. You haven't had much physical contact at all since mother left, let alone any sort of comforting gesture. You cherish the closeness for a moment. That is all you are allowed before the kaos god places his final bone-lamp.
The shriek was deafening. In invaded even your most intimate spaces, ringing through your brain like the whine of so many mosquitoes. You wince, your whole body seizing up as a phantom rises from the patterns created by the lights. It lunges toward you and a cry escapes your lips, which now feel unnaturally cold, cold enough that it stings and burns you. You can feel the warm flesh fall away, replaced by glowing vapors and exposing the bones of your jaw and muzzle. Your mouth opens wide and yowl in you fright and pain.
Meanwhile, spirits emerge from the other side of the void, and this kaos god's namesake comes to fruition.
There is a explosion of bodies and riotous shouting, ghostly figures leaping from their graves and the shadow-demon is swallowed up by the river. Your eyes flit about in a frenzy, not knowing where to look as motion erupts in every direction. You are taken back to the day you last saw mother, and your heart climbs into your throat, beating with great ferocity. The great big shadow (your father) has left, leaving you feeling exposed once again. In his place, a golden dragon stands before you, shielding you from the rest of them; that gives you a bit of comfort, even here in the middle of the whole shitstorm, barely knowing what's happening.
You feel about as helpless as you did the day you were dumped into this strange realm.
@Volterra not really a stellar post and isn't vital to anything else happening but I felt I needed to get it up
also @Eira sorry for not responding, I just figured Varuna would be too distracted by everything else to hear her greeting <3
Mauna’s exposure to cruelty, to horror, to treachery, deceit, lies upon lies, had been minimal; a passing of tides and crowns and portals, intrigue he knew very little about, couldn’t begin to describe or understand. So his eyes were open and wide on the channels of the river, on the haunting aspirations beckoning them to this wide plain, on the distance between friend, foe, ghost, or spirit, breathing in tandem with the rest of the world, pondering what was to happen next with the same silly glee any child would have nurtured.
Except –
His grandmother appeared, as blue and defiant as he remembered – like a blade, like a piercing, penetrating cutlass of righteous adversity – and anytime he recalled her name in his memory, rolled it over along his tongue, it was thunder and lightning, it was blazing and furious, it was illustrious and riveting. He watched, bore witness again and again, to the untamed reach of her prowess, yearned to laugh, to call out to her, because she was back, not specks of stars or dust. But then she shouted out his father’s name, and his eyes floated to Zero, steadfast, stalwart Zekle, and the excitement died inside of him, because this wasn’t a time or place for happiness, to be enriched, enchanted, at the idea of the dead returning to their sides. His sire’s features are just oceans and waves of sadness, of despair, of a gut-wrenching sorrow clinging over cheeks and eyes, and immediately the boy only wanted to protect him, to reach out, to say it’s okay (as if naught was wrong, as if it was all a play, all a mirage). He wanted the brightness back, the ebullience, the beautiful reach of his joy bristling over the seams of every empire. The lad extended his maw, the soft, dulcet nares flared out amidst the spiraling bedlam, but didn’t get far enough before the words are whispered, shuddering over his form, be brave, little mountain (for what? For what?).
Then, over the river, on a piece of gold, on wings of satin and sagacity, his mother appeared.
The very first thing he wanted to do was glance sharply over at Vulkan, at Otem, yell out “I told you so!” because she had returned and they said she was gone, they said she was dead, they said she couldn’t come back, and he’d always had faith, he’d always believed in her-
But the words died in his throat, because the tears started forming along his cheeks, within his eyes, without prompt or declaration, no preamble, no whims, just pure, utter joy. “Mom!” He cried out, the biggest, grandest smile on his face, capable of lighting the heavens, of stealing the dark. He longed to fly out to her, to land at her side and giggle, delight, at her sheer existence, and he couldn’t fathom why Zero was sorry, why Otem was screaming at the top of her lungs, why the whole world seemed to be roaring in his ears. The boy scarcely noticed the nerves, the rancor, the energy clawing and crossing over their wares; the way others yelled warnings (his mother would never do anything harmful or wretched – she was the Mountain who Knew). She was his focus, his muse, his sun, his earth, and Mauna stepped forward, beside his father, wings stretching, unfurling, begging to be released so he could be by her side one more time.
Then she began to turn to stone, and he’d be too late, he’d be too slow, he’d never get to her in time – and the tears kept falling, one by one, blood-red eyes round and reverent. She had so many words for everyone and everything, and when it finally came to him, to him, there are dragons in the soil and in the sky, her gilded gaze pinpointed, segmented on his soul, and he received almost nothing. Just be good. He’d been barely known, too fresh, too young, too anything, last on her list, when she’d been first in his heart.
He didn’t know what to say. He had naught to give back to her; no fairy-tale wishes, no harmonic hopes, no illusions of grandeur. They died in his stare, as she turned to his father and asked him to come with her. It felt like the most brutal of betrayals, slammed directly into his chest, into his heart – as she begged, as she pleaded, as she reasoned for Zero to go. How? How could that be? How could she just leave him there without his father? How could she be so selfish?
Maybe because he was.
“You can’t have him!” The little mountain boy screamed at the top of his lungs, suddenly vicious, ferocious, a shield, a shard, lanced too many times in too many places. He stepped directly in front of Zero’s form (waited for the earth to strike, for lightning to spiral and burst him away like they’d done before). The tears flew down his face and lord, he didn’t care at all, mouth open and savage, unfurled, threatened, undone – incapable of facing his sire in that moment, ground down to naught but the minute essence of a child without roots, flung down the canyon who’d borne him. “Please dad,” he whispered after, trying to maintain calm when his entire body shook, trembled, quivered. “You can’t go.”
Mauna
CROWNS HAVE THEIR COMPASS-LENGTH OF DAYS THEIR DATE-
TRIUMPHS THEIR TOMB-FELICITY, HER FATE-
OF NOUGHT BUT EARTH CAN EARTH MAKE US PARTAKER,
BUT KNOWLEDGE MAKES A KING MOST LIKE HIS MAKER.
Kiada played her part well; recited the lines, the oaths, the declarations as if she’d rehearsed them for days on end, pretended like they didn’t matter, like she hadn’t sown her blood into the heathen, cretin chasm. He wanted to laugh, to roll his eyes, to smirk and wink in her direction as others tore against her, as they tried to fathom why and how and where her soul had gone wrong – but he knew - he knew her strength, her affinity, the depths of her loyalties. She’d show them, and he’d protect, he’d guide, and they could scheme against the void while others stared, while others did nothing, while others proclaimed injustice.
He didn’t glance her way, just shuffled a few steps in her direction as the ghosts appeared (Ampere – last he’d spoke to her had been about alliances, and it seemed so absurd, so stupid now, Isopia – the raven girl who’d explored and quested for friends). For a few moments, he realized he’d been holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable, for someone he cherished, he craved, to appear out of the river (Aithniel, Ode, his father, his mother, countless other beings abolished and gone before they should’ve been). But none arrived, yet, and he was glad for it, because if his sire had burst from the anarchy of that hostile river he would’ve fallen completely, utterly apart, and all the holes would’ve never been filled again. He would’ve followed him into the sea, as Isopia beckoned to Zero, straight into the water’s edge and plunged headfirst, lost. Instead, the wraiths haunted, and Kisamoa drifted below the surface (he made no move to help; content for the moment that the false God, the thing that continued to bring them naught but god damn misery had found some of his own for a change). How does it feel? Erebos yearned to shout at the horrible beast, but naught croaked from his throat, from his lungs, moving only because there were children to shield, wraiths to thwart, valorous edges still resounding from the depths of his heart.
So he walked towards a crowd of babes, and stood before them – a blade, a knife, a dagger, ready to brandish it should any of them require bloodshed and ruin.
Scint River
