Scint River
The light pours from a myriad of fractures, the bones of the earth themselves broken, its ribcage torn open, the beating heart beneath—a pulsing furnace of light. Each breath is a low roar, thick with spirits, smelling of heaven and hell, things best left forgotten and undiscovered. It slips through noses and mouths, heady and frightening and intoxicating. Perhaps it is the sweet lavender smell of long, peaceful rest, or the decay of something dead and old. Maybe you catch the whiff of burnt flesh and melted hair.
Their cries, their moans and wails and roars and shrill shrieks, drift up from the innards of the world.
But why do they come up into the light?
They are called. They are called by a voice, words of commands, drawn in by patterns set with spectral lights, and perhaps they are cursed. They might have unfinished business, or simply miss the comforts of light, heartbeats and daylight, or they are so far gone they are powerless to resist the misplaced command.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions. The young deity goes under, and his fragile hold on the situation is broken. Without his bulwark—faint it might have been, but still his stubbornness and ferocity had protected them—memory and dreams and grudges age-old crawl up.
A silver shadow bursts from one of the rents, his mane and tail long and flowing. His horn casts a dimmed blue glow, and his eyes are banded in black—and any who knew him, knew only song and kindness to spill from his mouth, but his eyes are black and lost and the voice coming from his chest is discordant. Without thought, the shadow of Silverline hurls itself at Castiella and Otem, and by extension, Volterra and Vulkan. He looks like he did in life, but a little harder to see, hazy around the edges, and a little harder to touch. A broken chant spills from his mouth, and he tries to run his horn into Castiella's neck—behind him, the shadow of the summer-child, stormy and dappled and wild, crawls out, watching his brother's back.
And elsewhere, the shadows of the lost Isilme dead pour out, their bodies nothing but particles, razor-sharp fragments, clouds of death and void. They pour from the light, awakened from their rest once again. Like a tide of destruction they rush towards the shore, and all who stand in their way will have their skin slowly ripped to shreds, each pass of the spectral horde going deeper, deeper, deeper.
Then there's poor, brave Kiada—rushing to the aid of the fallen deity, the lost shadow child, her body covered in rose-gold armor, her headdress burning black and teal, carrying her master's banner as he himself went down. She is buffeted by ghosts, some mere visions, some the half-tangible ones like Silverline, and some, rotted, fetid husks like Tae.
She makes it to the river.
She steps into the river.
The current is strong, strangely so, and the instant she touches the water, she finds them warm. Not unpleasantly so, but warm, and the crying voices grow in both strength and clarity. Whispers suddenly have words in them, and foamy, steaming tendrils latch onto her skin—they want her to rest, to lie down, to drift away with the impossible current, to close her eyes, because she's so tired, tired, tired, tired... To sleep, would be delightful. To sleep, would be right, for she is living and she has stepped in the river of the dead, and so, she is theirs to keep, keep, keep, sleep, sleep, sleep...
She sees something, then—she sees herself die.
(Sleep, sleep, sleep...)
Maybe it is a vision of her end, for maybe, the river knows the course of history. Maybe, its spring is in the future, and its end is in the past.
Regardless of the hows and whys and whats, Kiada stumbles, and plunges nose-first into the river. It shouldn't have been deep enough to swallow her, but it was, and it pulled her into the white light along with Kis.
Up in the world of the living, the earth groans and shudders, as if the weight of this sacrilege is too much to bear.
Their cries, their moans and wails and roars and shrill shrieks, drift up from the innards of the world.
But why do they come up into the light?
They are called. They are called by a voice, words of commands, drawn in by patterns set with spectral lights, and perhaps they are cursed. They might have unfinished business, or simply miss the comforts of light, heartbeats and daylight, or they are so far gone they are powerless to resist the misplaced command.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions. The young deity goes under, and his fragile hold on the situation is broken. Without his bulwark—faint it might have been, but still his stubbornness and ferocity had protected them—memory and dreams and grudges age-old crawl up.
A silver shadow bursts from one of the rents, his mane and tail long and flowing. His horn casts a dimmed blue glow, and his eyes are banded in black—and any who knew him, knew only song and kindness to spill from his mouth, but his eyes are black and lost and the voice coming from his chest is discordant. Without thought, the shadow of Silverline hurls itself at Castiella and Otem, and by extension, Volterra and Vulkan. He looks like he did in life, but a little harder to see, hazy around the edges, and a little harder to touch. A broken chant spills from his mouth, and he tries to run his horn into Castiella's neck—behind him, the shadow of the summer-child, stormy and dappled and wild, crawls out, watching his brother's back.
And elsewhere, the shadows of the lost Isilme dead pour out, their bodies nothing but particles, razor-sharp fragments, clouds of death and void. They pour from the light, awakened from their rest once again. Like a tide of destruction they rush towards the shore, and all who stand in their way will have their skin slowly ripped to shreds, each pass of the spectral horde going deeper, deeper, deeper.
Then there's poor, brave Kiada—rushing to the aid of the fallen deity, the lost shadow child, her body covered in rose-gold armor, her headdress burning black and teal, carrying her master's banner as he himself went down. She is buffeted by ghosts, some mere visions, some the half-tangible ones like Silverline, and some, rotted, fetid husks like Tae.
She makes it to the river.
She steps into the river.
The current is strong, strangely so, and the instant she touches the water, she finds them warm. Not unpleasantly so, but warm, and the crying voices grow in both strength and clarity. Whispers suddenly have words in them, and foamy, steaming tendrils latch onto her skin—they want her to rest, to lie down, to drift away with the impossible current, to close her eyes, because she's so tired, tired, tired, tired... To sleep, would be delightful. To sleep, would be right, for she is living and she has stepped in the river of the dead, and so, she is theirs to keep, keep, keep, sleep, sleep, sleep...
She sees something, then—she sees herself die.
(Sleep, sleep, sleep...)
Maybe it is a vision of her end, for maybe, the river knows the course of history. Maybe, its spring is in the future, and its end is in the past.
Regardless of the hows and whys and whats, Kiada stumbles, and plunges nose-first into the river. It shouldn't have been deep enough to swallow her, but it was, and it pulled her into the white light along with Kis.
Up in the world of the living, the earth groans and shudders, as if the weight of this sacrilege is too much to bear.
the Rift
life between worlds
life between worlds
You are allowed to make your own ghosts! You can use RIFT HAVOC or post from your own accounts, but make sure that if you use a character that once existed, it is either your own or you have permission to write them! You are also free to have your characters ESCAPE by writing a post ending with "ESCAPE: has moved back to the crest of the ridge, but is still watching". This will not disqualify you in any way, but it'll allow your characters to not be attacked.
@Castiella @Otem @Volterra @Vulkán are attacked by two specters!
EVERYONE PRESENT is attacked by ghosts, zombies, and the dead of Isilme - shades made of black dust, each particle razor sharp. Prolonged exposure to them (as they simply try to run right through you) will cut you over and over, so I recommend not standing in them.
@Kiada sees a vision of herself dying, and is then dragged into a ghost-rift together with Kisamoa. How you want to play this out is up to you - lose consciousness? Float in some weird pleasant white space with Kaos? Something else entirely?
Have fun everyone! This will be wrapped up in ~5-7 days time!
