They both are, and they are not—whispers of nightmares, bodies made from half-remembered flesh.. they're a wall, a tide, a landslide, a mess of willpower and confusion.
And they burn.
Lena's voice sings them into the inferno, a spark here, a spark there, dry skin and tinder-bones; some are wet messes, but brought to heel by the snapping tongues of flame anyway. They part for her, they skitter out of her path, they throw themselves at her only to reel back with the spectral pain of fire. She is left to stand alone at the river's edge, a beacon of hope in the dark, unraveling world.
For make no mistake—this part of the world is ending today.
. . DOWN BELOW
They hummed in the dark corners, a faint song like a magnet pulling him in—pieces of himself, taken as prizes, and now, forgotten. Discarded. Thrown away like toys. It made the anger surge in his gut again, hot and feverish, somehow so much stronger in the oddly magically amplified place. Black smoke spilled from his mouth in a hiss. It was as if, when it couldn't wash everything mortal and determined from him and claim him, it chose to rile him up instead.
They were to blame for this. For everything.
So he should just kill her—
“I wasn’t alive when it happened...” Kisamoa paused, and turned his misguided attention back to the murky vaults (more the fiction needed to anchor the mind, an idea of a place, than an actual, physical location). Did it exonerate her from Helovia's shared crimes? Did it—no. Fuck it. Fuck all of it. "Caevoc," was all he muttered in response, diving deeper into the shadows, wondering if, perhaps, it was only wishful thinking on his part. Maybe, there wasn't anything here. Maybe, he was just wasting time.
Maybe, he was going to die. With the Scint, with the Helovians, with his world, which would surely wither and die without him there to help nurse it back to health.
Kiada beckoned for his attention, swimming in that not-quite-place with a most curious object in her mouth. Whenever it floated in in front of her, it obscured her features, blurred her edges, moved her partially from his sights—hid parts of her presence, even. A small smile twisted his elongated face, baring some of his dark, sharp teeth. "Yes," he said, pleased, as he ran his nose over the thick, tarry stripes. Vjanta. His body trembled, quaked as it rippled with color—burnt oranges and burnished bronze—and a third, bright yellow eye opened on his forehead, watching Kiada with a disconcerting intensity. After a moment, it closed, and disappeared.
Slowly, the slightly more feline form of Kisamoa reached out, and tugged the pelt from her. It did not hide him as it had her, but rather, expanded to cover his back like a cloak, somehow.
For a moment, he simply closed his eyes and inhaled, blissful, but the pressure building wouldn't be ignored.
Like calls to like, though, and his head snapped around, peering deeper into the dim depths. "This way," he said, as he swam deeper.
Dark water rose steadily up, swallowing the river banks inch by inch. Erthë, lying unconscious on the ground so close to the surge was helpless to save herself from the rising tide. Gradually she was claimed by the river; the pale hooves, her long legs, the rounded curves of her body, then - finally - even her head disappeared.
Gone.
Did no one notice her broken form swallowed up by the darkness? Were they all so busy scrambling to save their own lives that no one had a moment to spare for the one who could no longer run or fly herself to safety? The little mare was oblivious to the indifference of the horses she had always lovingly embraced as family, unaware of their callous ignorance as she faded from the world, claimed by the gateway Kaos so thoughtlessly had opened. If she had been aware, perhaps she would have been offended by their lack of interest in her fate. After all, had she not devoted her time and effort, invested so much emotion and energy into their pains and grief ever since they all came to this accursed place? Was she not fighting Kaos for their sake, so that the monster that robbed them all of their homeland and their loved ones would never be able to commit such atrocity again?
But Erthë was not aware of what was happening. She merely sank deep into the darkness of the river, down and down until she couldn't possibly be in the Rift anymore, until the layers of the world parted and the darkness gave way to a white nothingness, a state of bliss and peace she had never known.
And there, in that place where shadow and light became the same thing and anger, grief, hatred no longer meant anything, Kisamoa's spell of unconsciousness broke, and Erthë awoke.
Was this death? If it was, then life seemed far more terrible, with its constant struggle, its pain and ceaseless conflict. If it was death, then perhaps she would just stay here, and rest. It had been such a long time since she felt at ease, such a very, very long time... She couldn't even recall when the knot in her chest had begun to form, only knew it was gone by the absence of worry and pain this place - if it was a place, and not a state of mind, an idea, a concept - instilled upon her.
For what seemed like years - minutes, seconds, hours perhaps - Erthë simply relished the stillness, with not a care for anything else.
Then, slowly, she became aware of a soft humming against her skin. A gentle vibration, just on the border between a sensation and a sound. The bow, she realized, and the wolf's teeth; they were singing, calling, pulling her towards something, someone, and without thinking she obeyed and began to walk, not knowing where she was going or why.
It didn't really matter. She was at peace, and thinking more clearly than she ever had.
Right or wrong, I can hardly tell
I'm on the wrong side of heaven and the righteous side of hell
Erthë was swallowed up by the river and is being pulled by her Rift God objects towards Kis and Kiada. I intend to give them up to either of them, if you're willing to accept. :)
• Magic and violence may always be used against Erthë!
Everything unraveled, thread by thread, fiber by fiber, until he felt his heart plunge, sink, unraveling down into the nestling of thorns and brambles. His father was quiet, his mother was silent, his uncle continued to battle the lightning strands, and he was lost again, shaking, trembling, despite all the anger, all the hostility that had been within him only moments before. Perhaps he wasn’t made for acrimony and violence, didn’t feel the zeal, the finesse, the fervor of a blade or spear – too young, too immersed in more gentle, ignorant things, only emboldened, unfurled, in the rite, in the rapture, of strife and bedlam. Pushed and shoved, the calm, quiet waves of his childishness had fractured apart, and now they clung back together, needing, yearning, wanting, the protective nature of his family again, because he had naught else (no powers, no companions, no corruption simmering away at his bones). His eyes swarmed and followed the glow of ghosts and the agony of all the bewitching airs, striving not to quiver in the faces of demons and loved ones, a whisper creeping from his mouth towards his father. “Dad, we have to go.” It was a plea, an appeal, an entreaty, to return to somewhere else – because any other threshold had to be better, had to be safer, than the one they standing upon now, being struck down by pillars of the past. “Iskra,” he turned again to the blue and gold boy, who had to regard his dam as dangerous when she shouldn’t have been, and the little mountain wanted to cry again for all the ridiculous notions, sentiments, and trials they’d been granted since existing here, in this awful, awful place. The ruby red gaze watched in horror as so many twists and turns aligned themselves amidst the refined terror; a knife poised towards his family’s back, electric eagles screeching, careening, for the void. “Watch out!” The boy shouted, over and over again, for it was all he could do, all he could provide, taking turns tugging at his uncle’s wings and beseeching his father’s frame with vigorous snaps of his teeth. When his stare fixated on the embankment, so close and yet so far, he made the decision for them, utterly insistent, infernal in those clawing moments when something had to give way (and innocence already had). “Follow me!” Then tiny Mauna strived to reach for sanctity, for those precious, few instances where they’d be secure, escaping the unrelenting soullessness of the day.
{Attempts to coax @Zèklè and @Iskra to ESCAPE with him.}
Mauna
CROWNS HAVE THEIR COMPASS-LENGTH OF DAYS THEIR DATE-
TRIUMPHS THEIR TOMB-FELICITY, HER FATE-
OF NOUGHT BUT EARTH CAN EARTH MAKE US PARTAKER,
BUT KNOWLEDGE MAKES A KING MOST LIKE HIS MAKER.
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.}
He didn’t see Kiada sink into the river and join her brethren amidst the tides. His eyes only bore witness to the souls restlessly threading along the earth, conjured by a makeshift demon, brought back to life solely to corrupt and bludgeon. He likely should’ve known some of the faces, they could’ve been ancestors, bones carved and taken from Isilme’s soil, thrown and tossed amongst the hatred, the violence, and the vitriol. But he was too far gone, too consumed himself, too damn tired of the onslaught to look them in the eyes and see the blue reflected back, to wonder if his fire had once been the same as theirs. Instead, Erebos stood before children and forgot about anything and everything but the bloodshed, but the desire to ruin, to maim and destroy, curling the smallest snicker across his lips, throwing himself into oblivion because it was familiar, because when he was infernal and wretched he was also alive.
The corruption pulsing through his blood didn’t require any coercion – it simply sang and simmered in the restless, unrelenting air of false gods and rotten distortion, at home in the fire and flames, in bedlam, in torture, in horrors and blasted, infernal upheaval. Like a demon, like a mercenary, like a barbaric blade eager, fervent, to strike, he unleashed the fabrications and pretenses of pain (hoped it sickened the dead too, hoped it struck them right in the heart, right in the head, right in the last moments of their rancorous breath). He attempted to flood their enemies with the brutality of disaster and precision: the sharp, meticulous juncture of lost loved ones severed and destroyed before their eyes, the loss of homes, the constant, ridiculous consumption of all their promises, of all their hopes, of all warm, tender, fleeting moments. Erebos brought it back to the forefront of his frame time and time and time again, a vicious, persistent wave of acrimony and vigilance, protecting little ones like Patrick, backing across the runes, along the water, a savage Poseidon pervading the pool. Even when he reached the shoreline, he continued, an angry, torrential opus of wrath and contempt, an echo of their dimming dreams.
{Tries to use dark magic to inflict imaginary pain on ghosts surrounding them, then ESCAPES towards the shoreline near @Patrick, still using his magic to help others in their escape.}
It was pride that billowed in her chest upon her return. She looked up at Kisamoa with gleaming eyes full of excitement. If this is what he was looking for, she was performing a double duty of helping him and in her eyes, saving the world as well. Though she never imagined it would come to this, to be her redeeming factor from a life that chose darkness over the light – but her ideas hadn’t changed in how she wanted to rule. Perhaps with Kisamoa looking over her shoulder, her goal would get accomplished – one day, provided she ever made it out of this darkness.
She watched the smile creep up on his face, a pleasant yes for an answer and she held it up with pride as his elongated face raked across the armor. She saw from behind the armor as his body twitched with color in a flash before it was gone. But suddenly, a bright yellow eye appeared in the center of his head – one that she wanted to reel away from and look away, but something in her remained as she stared back, defiantly against her mental judgement as its intensity grew – and then, suddenly it was gone. Relief spread through her body as the feline part of Kisamoa reached out to grasp the armor. She watched in a small amount of awe as it stretched over his body and covered him as a cloak.
After a few moments, his head snapped to the darker depths, beckoning her to follow him, and so she obliged. Though as she swam with him, she noticed something she hadn’t seen before. A pale figure above her seemed to descend slightly, closer to her. She looked to Kisamoa for a brief moment, muttering an “I’ll be back” before swimming up to the figure. She didn’t recognize the mare at first, though she vaguely remembered her dive bombing Kisamoa. Immediately, she grew skeptical, and thought for a moment about leaving her here to think about what she’d done – but she couldn’t do that. Instead, she continued to swim up, aiming to cross paths with the ivory mare. “You had better come to help.” She began, her blue eyes seeming distant. “We’re trying to fix this mess and attacking Kisamoa won’t help it.” She tacked on at the end before relaxing her stance as she floated in place.
“However, if it’s true that you wish to help, we’re seeking God armor and weapons from the Rift wars in Helovia. An extra pair of eyes couldn’t hurt.” Her eyes landed on Erthe, growing a bit softer as she explained what they were doing. And deep down, she hoped she could trust the mare. Though this time, if things went sour, Kiada would hopefully be able to intervene.
They do not lose their fervor, the lost dead of many worlds and lifetimes—they are relentless, but among them, there are those who choose to lay down their arms. There are those who fade away like breath in winter air, like dreams upon waking. They sink back into the light, into the gaping wounds of the earth—they disappear in the warm, milky rush of the now-white river. Perhaps, they are the ones strong enough to resist the command of one not authorized to give it, or perhaps, they are simply so far gone that they do not recall that they can fight.
It doesn't help, though. No matter how many that melt away like yesteryear's snow, more take their place, and the quaking earth finds no rest. Corruption stems the dead tide flowing against Erebos and the young he protects, but what does it matter, when you consider what is going on? The darkness between the Rainforest Cliffs and the Scint opens its jaws wider and wider, as the whole river starts to become untethered.
One side—veiled in darkness and lost memory—is still attached to the lands of the Rift, but the western edge, the one you all came from, it is beginning to swing out into the aether. It is bizarre to watch. It doesn't make sense to the eye.
There was no question of morals or honor or even redemption anymore—no thoughts of being forgiven, of making reparations. Zèklè, and the pain which had brought them all here in the first place, all gone. Otem and Isopia. Volterra. None of it mattered. Not even Kiada. Or was it just that he didn't want her to matter?
Vjanta's hide was heavy on his back, a constant fight between giving in and keeping her out; his back was bleeding black blood from the struggle. Beloved, who had rejoiced in coming to the Rift, the realm of madness and violence and greed. Beloved, who had wanted little more but to watch him slaughter indiscriminately, or something like that at least.
Could he even save them? Should he? Or rather, should he?
Everything had gone all wrong. If it wasn't because the destruction of the Scint would wash him away, too, maybe he'd just...leave them all there.
He could find other, weaker realms to bend to his will. He could find lesser places to pull into the Rift, and gorge on. He could find worlds full of creatures he could kill, and water the earth with their blood and magic. Patch up the holes with their skin and souls. Worlds and inhabitants not guarded by dead gods.
"But" was the only word echoing in his mind, but he couldn't ever finish the sentence in a way he liked. But they're already here. But I could maybe make it work. But whatever the fuck, I don't care, I don't know.
She murmured to him, and floated from his side. Surprised, Kisamoa halted his paddling to peer after her, wondering what had caught her attention. He squinted in the twilight of the tombs, waited until he could make out the pearly white shape of.. oh, right. Erthë. The rising waters must've swallowed her, and what with her being on the other side from the rest, no one had probably noticed, or cared.
Too bad for her.
He knew he could find Kiada again, so he drifted deeper, followed the song of the sword until he found it. Vjanta, again. It was unbalanced. There was too much of her and not enough of the rest, but he had no choice.
He grasped the sword in his mouth, and allowed the magic it was imbued with to drag him back up to the two mares. What they had said or done he didn't know, but the ghostly presence of a demon hovered next to him. Its hands grasped the hilt of the bone-sword, the blade still grasped in Kisamoa's bleeding jaws.
He said nothing. Merely stared expectantly at them.
Unconscious as she had been, the little white mare had not been privy to the happenings since she blacked out. It was surprising then to discover that she was not alone in that strange place. Kaos she could have anticipated perhaps, but to see a child of Temobvu there as well was... unexpected. For a moment that spanned the time it took to blink (or perhaps it was an eon; it was so hard to sense the passing of time here, if it indeed passed at all) Erthë considered the filly as she came to meet her, scouring her mind for a name. She was sure there had been one, at some point, was almost completely certain that she had seen the child frolic through the forests of the Edge before... well, before Kisamoa happened. But if ever she had known the name of the little moonling, it was gone now and Erthë found that it didn't really matter.
"I won't bother you" she replied, with a serene calm that was eerie compared to the rage she had displayed before. "It is good that he realizes that it needs fixing... I thought KAOS was all he was capable of."
Her gaze traveled past the child and sought Kisamoa's black-and-teal eyes, level and calm, free of accusation even though there was a certain bite to her words. "Does that mean there is more to you than death and destruction? If I gave you these, what then will you do with them? Do you even know yourself?"
Reaching in beneath the broken wing, that hung limp and useless by her side - curiously there was no pain, but a pang of concern still rippled her stillness at the sight of it - the slender young mare withdrew the ivory bow that had once been part of Caevoc's spine, and then gathered up the teeth Reszo had provided; one black fang split into three, but part of the god's body none the less.
Right or wrong, I can hardly tell
I'm on the wrong side of heaven and the righteous side of hell
The girl hadn’t noticed that Kisamoa spent a moment to look back at her as she left his side. Truly, had the pale girl not caught Kiada’s attention, she would have sunk lower with Kisamoa continuing on her search. But there was a part of her that wanted to be sure that the mare would be able to make it out provided she could even get out herself. She had a heart, a bruised and scratched up one, but it was a heart nonetheless. So when she reached Erthe, and the pale girl spoke calmly of how she wouldn’t bother her Kiada’s inky ears flicked back for a brief moment. As she continued to speak, Kiada hadn’t realized that Kisamoa had returned from behind her, looking over at Erthe with expectation.
“Whether you believe it or not, he’s not entirely bad. If he wanted us dead, do you think he would have allowed us to come to this new land?” She mentioned, tilting her head slightly noticing the woman’s blue gaze looking past her. And that was when she felt the presence of Kisamoa. Her head lowered slightly, listening as Erthe appeared to interrogate him. It struck a chord with her, frustration barreling in her chest. Did the mare really need to spend the time to ask if it was a good idea? He could just let them run rampant and kill everyone, but he chose to find items to help and she was questioning him. Regardless, the girl said nothing. Instead, she waited to see what Kisamoa had to say.
Then, much to Kiada’s surprise, Erthe pulled some of those god items Kiada had been seeking, pulling a bow that looked as though it was made of bone and a few teeth. Kiada’s ears flicked forward, and she moved sideways slightly, falling back beside Kisamoa and the demon she just now noticed, allowing the room for Kisamoa to accept the items much like the armor she had found, waiting to see what kind of event would appear from him taking these items. She witnessed the yellow eye that bore into her soul, curious to see if something similar would happen and how Erthe would receive it.
"I thought KAOS was all he was capable of." Well, he admitted to himself, you're not all wrong.
And maybe, he should stop his little act of rebellion—give in to the dark powers he was made of, become what his Gods had been before their death. Greedy, insane, unpredictable. It was what he had named himself, was it not? Chaos.
Without remorse he had carved his reputation from their grief, and now, he was trying to undo what he had done to himself, deny what he was, who he was. Of course it was bound to end in something as spectacular as the Scint madness. He was an agent of destruction. He was bad judgment walking. He was a complex child, lying to himself, his own blood pooling in his mouth because he was biting something desperate to return into the folds of flesh in his body and he was desperate not to let it.
He was not Vjanta. He did not want to be Vjanta.
But he did want her power.
And he wasn't sure whether to be horrified or pleased with what Kiada said when her back was turned, before she knew that he had returned. It touched that same spot which made him go aww, like Castiella trying to soothe him on the beach—he frowned a little. To be honest, he kind of wanted them all dead, and had definitely contemplated it more than once, but with the seal the gods had left on their souls it wouldn't have helped matters at all...
When Erthë spoke to him directly, he prised his jaws open. The demon twirled the sword, content to remain with them, and Kisamoa licked the blood from his lips, and swallowed the mouthful of it. It burned on the way down his gullet. "You forgot deceit," the deity purred, "but I seem to recall saying I would not lie anymore."
Maybe not the best ways to reconcile with your enemy, or make friends in general. "You might have noticed that this did not go according to plan." He waved his head, a few drops of burning, black blood flying from his mouth, at the vaults. Of course, Erthë had no way of knowing what his plan had been, and even as he swore to himself that it had only been to try and bring closure to Zèklè, he found himself wondering if he hadn't wanted to go here all along. Find lost pieces of himself. It ..disturbed him. He leveled his black-and-teal gaze on Erthë and her spine-bow, his voice turning to granite. "I am not strong enough on my own to fix this. There's still power in these ..remnants. I am hoping—" He nearly spat the word. Here, take my weakness. Take my confession. "—that with them, I will be strong enough to get everyone out before the Scint is ripped from this world." The last bit came out a savage growl. The bone-sword the demon twirled hummed menacingly through the not-quite-air.
Kisamoa forced himself to take a deep breath. "Will you help?"
Scint River
