Scint River
08-16-2017, 05:25 PM
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.
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.
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
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.
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
