Scint River
08-31-2017, 02:17 PM
@Kiada
He was a thinly veiled mess—in his black chest his stitched-together heart beat with a fervor and a furious panic, each beat counting down the time to disaster, but the problem was that he didn't know how long they had left.
He had seen it coming, from the first moment the river strained against his wards: the Scint would overflow. It was what the land had warned him of, and what he had waved off. It'll be fine, he'd thought, he'd told the Rift and its many, many eyes. I know what I'm doing. I have to try.
Partially out of vengeance: look at what your foolish, emotional request led to. He would both try fix it, and show them that it was pointless. What had happened, had happened, and they'd better just deal with it and look where it had brought him—the doorstep of death, where lost things came to rest, forgotten. Even down there, he felt the fabric of the world coming apart.
It was too dangerous. Too much power. An infected limb in need of being severed.
The Scint, his precious river—
Focus. But why? For those above? For Kiada, being so loyal, so stupid, so brave? Did he care? He'd wrestled with it ever since he'd told Zèklè he would try. He kept telling himself it was to buy their loyalty, and to show them the past was best left as it was, but there was that something niggling in a desolate corner of his mind.. something he wanted to smother in fury and hate. Look at what you made me do!
But hatred wasn't all good and well if he'd get destroyed with a magical river in a strange fold of the dimension. He had to get out of there first, and then, he could give them a piece of his mind.
(Guilt again. Kiada.)
"Things of the dead gods," he replied, his voice still uncharacteristically smooth, his many teeth needle-like and sharp. His eyes narrowed against the surroundings. "There's, uh..." He frowned, as if it hurt to think about. "There were weapons made from their bones, armor made from their hides... Not all of it was brought through the Portal, and that which remained in Helovia..." Familiar anger stirred in his gut, even in that serene place where all bitterness and strife ought to be washed from the body.
But Kisamoa was not there to die, so he fought against it. "This," he said as he sunk even deeper, "is a doorstep to death. Lost things sometimes end up here." He had let go of her at some point, for she seemed capable of navigating the strange forces suspending them, but he surprised himself by keeping an eye on her anyway.
"And I can feel something of them here..."
He was a thinly veiled mess—in his black chest his stitched-together heart beat with a fervor and a furious panic, each beat counting down the time to disaster, but the problem was that he didn't know how long they had left.
He had seen it coming, from the first moment the river strained against his wards: the Scint would overflow. It was what the land had warned him of, and what he had waved off. It'll be fine, he'd thought, he'd told the Rift and its many, many eyes. I know what I'm doing. I have to try.
Partially out of vengeance: look at what your foolish, emotional request led to. He would both try fix it, and show them that it was pointless. What had happened, had happened, and they'd better just deal with it and look where it had brought him—the doorstep of death, where lost things came to rest, forgotten. Even down there, he felt the fabric of the world coming apart.
It was too dangerous. Too much power. An infected limb in need of being severed.
The Scint, his precious river—
Focus. But why? For those above? For Kiada, being so loyal, so stupid, so brave? Did he care? He'd wrestled with it ever since he'd told Zèklè he would try. He kept telling himself it was to buy their loyalty, and to show them the past was best left as it was, but there was that something niggling in a desolate corner of his mind.. something he wanted to smother in fury and hate. Look at what you made me do!
But hatred wasn't all good and well if he'd get destroyed with a magical river in a strange fold of the dimension. He had to get out of there first, and then, he could give them a piece of his mind.
(Guilt again. Kiada.)
"Things of the dead gods," he replied, his voice still uncharacteristically smooth, his many teeth needle-like and sharp. His eyes narrowed against the surroundings. "There's, uh..." He frowned, as if it hurt to think about. "There were weapons made from their bones, armor made from their hides... Not all of it was brought through the Portal, and that which remained in Helovia..." Familiar anger stirred in his gut, even in that serene place where all bitterness and strife ought to be washed from the body.
But Kisamoa was not there to die, so he fought against it. "This," he said as he sunk even deeper, "is a doorstep to death. Lost things sometimes end up here." He had let go of her at some point, for she seemed capable of navigating the strange forces suspending them, but he surprised himself by keeping an eye on her anyway.
"And I can feel something of them here..."
beauty in darkness
kaos in light
kaos in light
.. and kaos opened up its eyes
