» every broken promise

UP ABOVE . . .
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.

But it's still happening.

. . DOWN BELOW
@Kiada @Erthë

Am I going about this right?

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.

beauty in darkness
kaos in light

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