Scint River
09-04-2017, 10:37 PM
This world only seemed designed to hurt.
It poked and it prodded. It lacerated and punished. It scalded and bludgeoned until there only seemed to be remnants of one’s self amidst the chaos. It was fight or flight. Live or die. Strive for something greater until that too was ripped from the cataclysm, and an entity was stranded, bare, either fervent or ready to give in. She wouldn’t be the latter – even as the ghosts hummed against their frames, even as the realm threatened to unravel around them, even as power and condemnation twisted the foundation of everything she’d ever known.
There were flashes of a time grander, greater, more profound and delightful – and she wished she’d understood how delicate, how precious, they’d been before it was all snatched and buried, all consigned and destroyed. She’d loved the days spent amidst the sands, laughing beside her sister as they came up with ridiculous follies and mischief, roaming amidst the oasis pretending to be a sea monster, running through the glassy cave and spying creatures with Iskra. It’d been short-lived and wonderful, a blessing she could only cherish in its absence, because now all they faced were horrors and treacheries, beings who’d promised protection in life, but only bestowed treachery in death, and it made her simmer, made her smolder, made her so angry underneath the droning mutations and fickle, mercurial toils. Why was Iskra, kind, gentle, reassuring Iskra, attacked by his own mother? Why were the dead walking amongst the living, casting their love aside for grander sins? Why had everything so great, grand, and amazing, been forgotten in this damned, foul earth?
And why couldn’t she do anything about it?
Because maybe that’s what irritated her most of all. The root of the exasperation building through her frame was a cumbersome weight, embroidered over her shoulders, expanding along her chest, boiling along her blood – for she was made of action, of impulses, of voice and boldness. Melita should’ve been able to do something, anything for her friends and family, and here, in this moment, she had nothing. There were no powers stored within her soul to give her the chance to fight back bestial souls and their incriminating voids. There were no measures, plots, or schemes immersed within her temple to unleash into the bedlam, make the God pay for what he’d done. The frustration chiseled its way into her mind, into her head, and she was at a tipping point, glaring into the eyes of apparitions, ready to yell, ready to scream, ready to strike at incorporeal foes, not watching the lightning queen release her caustic invocations.
The beams of light already bore down upon her before she could do anything. Her first instinct was to look for Clementine, to shield her from the incoming storm, stretching out her wings, pushing her into a protective embrace, when the eagle’s snapping, crackling synapses flared over her right hind. The pain was so intense, so sharp, so overbearing that she immediately screamed, mouth parted on a flaring, distressing shriek, then flowing down into a whimper (trying not to show the agony, but it was already there, charred into her flesh, into her face), stare searching for Clementine. “Are you okay?” She had to be sure, had to be certain, that no attack had fissured and punctured its way towards her beloved sister, that Ampere’s brutality hadn’t reigned on the little flower girl. Gasping, she strived to answer the prior inquiry, but it was dead and gone now, lost in a series of paralyzing, shocking moments. “I don’t know,” she gasped and reeled, head down, gaze on the ground, body and Sila trying to assess the damage dealt; her entire hind felt like it was fizzling and numb all at once. She knew, she understood, she couldn’t handle another blistering blow from anyone or anything, and her eyes rippled across the void, striving to regain her bearings, to find a way out. The youth struggled to blink away the blinding tears that had managed to flow their way into the corners of her eyes, reeling for more air, turning her head, lifting her wings, praying for a salvation that wasn’t coming. Even Iskra was under another barrage from his dam, and there was nothing she could do – the fury laced its way down into her bones then, stayed locked and taut, tethered amidst the calamity. “We have to get to the shore,” and her tiny enchanted crown, with its wondrous petals, pointed in the direction of the embankment, their last lifeline, their only sanctuary from the current strife, strides small, miniscule, aching, clambering onwards through sheer perseverance and preservation.
She wouldn’t be this helpless again – she’d make sure of it.
{Melita takes Ampere\'s attack while trying to protect Clementine. Then she tries to ESCAPE, urging Clem to come with her.}
It poked and it prodded. It lacerated and punished. It scalded and bludgeoned until there only seemed to be remnants of one’s self amidst the chaos. It was fight or flight. Live or die. Strive for something greater until that too was ripped from the cataclysm, and an entity was stranded, bare, either fervent or ready to give in. She wouldn’t be the latter – even as the ghosts hummed against their frames, even as the realm threatened to unravel around them, even as power and condemnation twisted the foundation of everything she’d ever known.
There were flashes of a time grander, greater, more profound and delightful – and she wished she’d understood how delicate, how precious, they’d been before it was all snatched and buried, all consigned and destroyed. She’d loved the days spent amidst the sands, laughing beside her sister as they came up with ridiculous follies and mischief, roaming amidst the oasis pretending to be a sea monster, running through the glassy cave and spying creatures with Iskra. It’d been short-lived and wonderful, a blessing she could only cherish in its absence, because now all they faced were horrors and treacheries, beings who’d promised protection in life, but only bestowed treachery in death, and it made her simmer, made her smolder, made her so angry underneath the droning mutations and fickle, mercurial toils. Why was Iskra, kind, gentle, reassuring Iskra, attacked by his own mother? Why were the dead walking amongst the living, casting their love aside for grander sins? Why had everything so great, grand, and amazing, been forgotten in this damned, foul earth?
And why couldn’t she do anything about it?
Because maybe that’s what irritated her most of all. The root of the exasperation building through her frame was a cumbersome weight, embroidered over her shoulders, expanding along her chest, boiling along her blood – for she was made of action, of impulses, of voice and boldness. Melita should’ve been able to do something, anything for her friends and family, and here, in this moment, she had nothing. There were no powers stored within her soul to give her the chance to fight back bestial souls and their incriminating voids. There were no measures, plots, or schemes immersed within her temple to unleash into the bedlam, make the God pay for what he’d done. The frustration chiseled its way into her mind, into her head, and she was at a tipping point, glaring into the eyes of apparitions, ready to yell, ready to scream, ready to strike at incorporeal foes, not watching the lightning queen release her caustic invocations.
The beams of light already bore down upon her before she could do anything. Her first instinct was to look for Clementine, to shield her from the incoming storm, stretching out her wings, pushing her into a protective embrace, when the eagle’s snapping, crackling synapses flared over her right hind. The pain was so intense, so sharp, so overbearing that she immediately screamed, mouth parted on a flaring, distressing shriek, then flowing down into a whimper (trying not to show the agony, but it was already there, charred into her flesh, into her face), stare searching for Clementine. “Are you okay?” She had to be sure, had to be certain, that no attack had fissured and punctured its way towards her beloved sister, that Ampere’s brutality hadn’t reigned on the little flower girl. Gasping, she strived to answer the prior inquiry, but it was dead and gone now, lost in a series of paralyzing, shocking moments. “I don’t know,” she gasped and reeled, head down, gaze on the ground, body and Sila trying to assess the damage dealt; her entire hind felt like it was fizzling and numb all at once. She knew, she understood, she couldn’t handle another blistering blow from anyone or anything, and her eyes rippled across the void, striving to regain her bearings, to find a way out. The youth struggled to blink away the blinding tears that had managed to flow their way into the corners of her eyes, reeling for more air, turning her head, lifting her wings, praying for a salvation that wasn’t coming. Even Iskra was under another barrage from his dam, and there was nothing she could do – the fury laced its way down into her bones then, stayed locked and taut, tethered amidst the calamity. “We have to get to the shore,” and her tiny enchanted crown, with its wondrous petals, pointed in the direction of the embankment, their last lifeline, their only sanctuary from the current strife, strides small, miniscule, aching, clambering onwards through sheer perseverance and preservation.
She wouldn’t be this helpless again – she’d make sure of it.
{Melita takes Ampere\'s attack while trying to protect Clementine. Then she tries to ESCAPE, urging Clem to come with her.}
Melita
let me live that fantasy
@Clementine @Iskra
