Scint River
08-15-2017, 01:36 AM
He heard them gather. He did not know why they had come, but he suspected it had something to do with curiosity—it was a powerful thing, and damning. He paused for a moment, a small bonelight clutched in his shifting mouth, held by his soft lips and not his sharp teeth, and watched them as they gathered on the bank. White foam rose around his shadowy fetlocks. Curiosity, indeed, and resentment, for a young colt saw fit to uproot a bonelight before Otem stopped him. Kisamoa heaved a sigh. Good thing foals did not have teeth.
He drove the bonelight into the river, before moving towards the bank. Otem kept chewing the boy out. It was...touching, he decided. He felt his lips curve into his version of a smile—lopsided and disconcerting, as if his entire face was about to slide off his skull. "Thank you, Otem," he breathed as he loomed behind her and Varuna, ignoring the young boy for now. He had no desire to argue. He needed to keep his focus.
Slowly, he reached down, and righted the upturned bonelight. It was still whole, fortunately, and he placed it with care.
An audience wasn't necessary for this, and that was why he had not called them, but he had still counted on them to come. And one, one of those who had escaped to Helovia only to be returned to the fold, spoke up, but he seemed more curious than condescending. Kisamoa's teal eyes flickered to him, and he paused for a moment before answering. Perhaps, they would need the knowledge to navigate the Scint in the future. "The bonelights are tools," he simply said. "And the river, you can jump across in places. There used to be a tree, you could carve a warding sign from it, and the spirits would let you walk across once, and then the ward would crack. But I don't—I haven't seen them. Perhaps, they do not grow here anymore." He tried to not let the distress he felt at the thought leak into his voice. The Rift was changed enough as it was, just in the few years the Gods had been dead and he missing—it had been warped and twisted and full of dangers for decades, maybe even centuries, but this? This was a whole new level of wrong and he never knew what to make of it, and neither did the Gods, so for the most part, he just ignored it.
He was good at ignoring things. "No," he answered Kiada, his voice soft. Zèklè stood next to her, and.. and he felt something twist in his heart, just a little. He had come, and. Kisamoa swallowed. He had warned him, and the Rift was warning him, but.. No more games, no more death. He had to try. "Yes," he said, sadly, for there was nothing else to say.
But he heard them, their voices twining with the whispers, curling around his heart like poison and doubt; the glances thrown at the bonelights, the odds calculated, did not escape him. Off-hand comments about eating mothers and killing friends, reminders of every perceived wrong he had committed to save his world. His heart picked up.
They wanted to be angry, to howl out their disdain and hatred, to let it spill like black-and-teal death from his mouth, a tide to smother them—an eye for an eye until they had built themselves new bodies from them, and once more walked their fucking lands.
But they were dead. He wished he could just drop them in the river, but they weren't the kind of dead things that stayed properly dead.
So they stayed in the half-existence, bits of a whole, filled with rage.
He strode back into the river, into the storm of power; the wind howled around his ears, tugged at his tangled, matted hair, a halo of black thorns crowning him for a moment. In the distance, he heard the thunder roar. He felt the ground beneath him quiver and shake; massive waves crashed onto the shore far away, and the specters in the Labyrinth were frenzied. The entire Rift tensed, and Kisamoa stood in the center death's power, nostrils flaring, breathing in the charged air. This was it.
It was now or never.
Kisamoa buried his doubts, and spoke the words aloud.
"להעלות את המתים."
And the world erupted into chaos. The ground quaked, deep rents opening, and white, blinding light blazed out of them—and with the light, the spirits crawled out of their graves, called by the patterns he had laid.
He drove the bonelight into the river, before moving towards the bank. Otem kept chewing the boy out. It was...touching, he decided. He felt his lips curve into his version of a smile—lopsided and disconcerting, as if his entire face was about to slide off his skull. "Thank you, Otem," he breathed as he loomed behind her and Varuna, ignoring the young boy for now. He had no desire to argue. He needed to keep his focus.
Slowly, he reached down, and righted the upturned bonelight. It was still whole, fortunately, and he placed it with care.
An audience wasn't necessary for this, and that was why he had not called them, but he had still counted on them to come. And one, one of those who had escaped to Helovia only to be returned to the fold, spoke up, but he seemed more curious than condescending. Kisamoa's teal eyes flickered to him, and he paused for a moment before answering. Perhaps, they would need the knowledge to navigate the Scint in the future. "The bonelights are tools," he simply said. "And the river, you can jump across in places. There used to be a tree, you could carve a warding sign from it, and the spirits would let you walk across once, and then the ward would crack. But I don't—I haven't seen them. Perhaps, they do not grow here anymore." He tried to not let the distress he felt at the thought leak into his voice. The Rift was changed enough as it was, just in the few years the Gods had been dead and he missing—it had been warped and twisted and full of dangers for decades, maybe even centuries, but this? This was a whole new level of wrong and he never knew what to make of it, and neither did the Gods, so for the most part, he just ignored it.
He was good at ignoring things. "No," he answered Kiada, his voice soft. Zèklè stood next to her, and.. and he felt something twist in his heart, just a little. He had come, and. Kisamoa swallowed. He had warned him, and the Rift was warning him, but.. No more games, no more death. He had to try. "Yes," he said, sadly, for there was nothing else to say.
But he heard them, their voices twining with the whispers, curling around his heart like poison and doubt; the glances thrown at the bonelights, the odds calculated, did not escape him. Off-hand comments about eating mothers and killing friends, reminders of every perceived wrong he had committed to save his world. His heart picked up.
They wanted to be angry, to howl out their disdain and hatred, to let it spill like black-and-teal death from his mouth, a tide to smother them—an eye for an eye until they had built themselves new bodies from them, and once more walked their fucking lands.
But they were dead. He wished he could just drop them in the river, but they weren't the kind of dead things that stayed properly dead.
So they stayed in the half-existence, bits of a whole, filled with rage.
He strode back into the river, into the storm of power; the wind howled around his ears, tugged at his tangled, matted hair, a halo of black thorns crowning him for a moment. In the distance, he heard the thunder roar. He felt the ground beneath him quiver and shake; massive waves crashed onto the shore far away, and the specters in the Labyrinth were frenzied. The entire Rift tensed, and Kisamoa stood in the center death's power, nostrils flaring, breathing in the charged air. This was it.
It was now or never.
Kisamoa buried his doubts, and spoke the words aloud.
"להעלות את המתים."
And the world erupted into chaos. The ground quaked, deep rents opening, and white, blinding light blazed out of them—and with the light, the spirits crawled out of their graves, called by the patterns he had laid.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
There isn't exactly any posting order, so just post as much as you like. :]
There will be a few posts from the spirits shortly, but you may post whenever you like!
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
