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Orcus the Demon King - Mauja - 01-04-2015 somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me "They call me the frostheart," the snowbeast whispered, voice nothing but white smoke rising in front of a white face. But if his heart was made of frost, how could he live? If his veins were ice and the shining, pulsing red refracted through its crystalline walls, how could he move without shattering? And if he was truly frozen over.. .. how could he love? Because love, was his undoing. Love. It nestled in the blackened ruin of his heart, shrieked in the icy wind blasting through his soul, and it was love that hid behind the ice walls of his eyes. Love—unrequited, dead, forgotten. It was the arctic wolf hunting him, ice-rimed fangs snapping at his bleeding haunches, and its terrorizing, haunting song at night was composed out of the very same thing which beat in its core—that cursed, cursed word. They bandied it about like a slogan or a shield, some kind of cure, or the fucking meaning of life. As if it was worth something. As if it fixed anything. All you need is love. You can't eat love. You can't breathe love. It haunts you, it preys upon your dreams, your mind, your body, until everything in the spaces between your bones feels hollowed. Piece by piece it tears you asunder, leaving nothing but that aching emptiness, a brand of fire burning against your soul, and slowly bleeding you dry. Love solved nothing. Love was torture. Love was a plague. All love had ever given him, was pain. All love had ever given him, was heartache. All love had ever given him, was this meaningless, shitty existence, pieces of a life strung out over endless miles of gray, flat terrain with a hazy and unreachable horizon. Bit by bit he'd broken down on the way, little fragments of Mauja lining his road there like ice glittering in the sun—but only for a moment, before it melted, and eventually, dried up. His time in this world meant nothing. Was worth nothing. He would leave no lasting marks upon it. "Frostheart," the beast whispered again, bitterly, the wind—that shrieking, howling wind of wolf-song and his own personal brand of agony—whipping tears from his eyes and freezing them upon his cheeks. Spring meant little in the land of winter and snow, where the white dug its fangs in as deeply as love had dug its own into his soul. Winter was as merciless as love, just as haunting and just as cruel, unwilling to let go of what it had claimed. But where winter was peace, love was not; love was warfare, against an enemy which did not exist outside of his heart. It was a wound neither logic nor insight could heal—it was a wound as invisible as the emotion itself. It bled the soul dry and left the body a living, empty husk. "Frostheart," he said again, but this time it was a sob (it was almost a laugh), because the title was so marvelously unfitting he wondered how he had ever been branded with it. His heart was bitten and torn, but at its core, it was warm. Mauja had loved. Mauja had loved, and he had always lost. [ uuhmm @[Roskuld] perhaps ;D ] somebody make me feel alive and shatter me RE: Orcus the Demon King - Roskuld - 01-04-2015
RE: Orcus the Demon King - Mauja - 01-07-2015 somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me
The King is dead. King and Lord—beggar and pawn. Whatever royal cloak he had worn had been handed over to someone else, whatever fucking crown he'd carried upon his regal, haughty head had melted, or just been lost, and what he was left with was just his spotted, scarred skin. The marks of his own defeat, loss written into the flesh of his body. Many were lost and subtle, but a half-healed gash gaped across his left shoulder. It was just another painful reminder of what he had lost—thought he had lost—and sometimes he still regretted not letting her pearly horn strike straight into his heart. He wouldn't be standing here, then, with only the wind as an excuse for his weeping. He wouldn't be standing here, and the owls, tucked away safely in some bush, somewhere, wouldn't be tucked away either. They would've been dead. As dead as he. But as it is, only the King is dead, and what's left is just a vagabond in the tattered remains of a once majestic attire. Snow and charcoal and ice. If he was beautiful, if he was striking, it wasn't his choice. Just his bloodlines. Just the way his body was composed out of angles and curves, the way his skin draped over his thick frame and pulled taut across world-weary muscles. Because in the details, where the once had been strength and beauty, something enigmatic and arcane, there was little left; pain, and the dullness of his gaze. He didn't know what kind of pathetic strings that kept the framework of his existence together, but as he stood there with his head bent low and eyes closed (but the world won't leave him be, and the pain comes from within anyway) he almost, almost, wished they would snap. Break. Tear. For the flood to spill forth, and whatever fragile sanity he had left to be shattered. It would almost be a relief to have the world tumble down around him, and be swept away by it, rather than struggle through the resemblance of normalcy. It wasn't that he tried to be who he had been, or to pretend all was fine—it was just that he was physically unable to lose that last ounce of control. If he reached for the obliterating darkness, the chaos, the grief (too much blood on snow, the stars wheeling silently, and coldly, overhead).. he found it, but he could not step into it. He shied back. He shied back to where it was safer, but where it still hurt. “Hey!” One black-rimmed ear flicked to the shout, but even if the wind shouted his name, why should he listen? It was not the voice of his brother. It was.. not the voice of someone who could save him. Because, that would have to be his own voice. So he didn't listen. Turned his head away. Pressed his blue, blue eyes shut tighter. “HEY!” What, had she been looking, seen him turn away in denial of her presence? Did she insist on shoving herself into his path? It was louder this time, more insistent, closer. He could feel her presence trickle down his spine. Don't, he wanted to snarl at her, don't come near me, because he wanted to be alone. He wanted to keep denying to the world what was happening. How far he was falling. How deep. "THE KING IS FUCKING DEA- oh." His head had whipped around, his rough voice thundering out over the terrain, trying to dominate the harsh keening of the wind—but when his eyes had snapped open his yell had broken off, and he simply stared at her in something that could only be described as pleasant surprise. Or maybe like, shit I'm glad to see you're still alive even after I abandoned you and broke the like what 956386th promise in my life. Because that was the truth of it. He'd sworn to himself to protect her, and what had he done? Yeah, right. Upped and left. "Loudmouth," he said, more conversationally, when she was closer; the word might once have been a word, or an insult, but now it was simply a name—and the voice of the winter beast was warm, if tired, but warm all the same. He tried to blink his frozen tears away, thoughts touching unbidden to what he'd been thinking of earlier. The King is dead. The Frostheart is dead. There was only Mauja left, now—whoever the hell that was. [ @[Roskuld]! ] somebody make me feel alive and shatter me RE: Orcus the Demon King - Roskuld - 01-08-2015
RE: Orcus the Demon King - Mauja - 01-11-2015 somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me
It's not like he's got any clue what's going on. There's just the storm, a sense of pressure coming from within—of something painful and alive sitting in his chest, hammering at his ribs with tiny fists. Something that wanted out, but it was stuck. Trapped, by flesh and bones, something it wasn't made of itself. Emotions were as intangible as starlight. He was just glad to see her. In all the darkness and pain, in the chaos of his uncertain existence, he was happy to see her, a familiar face, someone who wasn't bound to him by blood or duty, but rather.. through some unexplainable twist of fate, and the actions spawned from it. And perhaps he didn't matter—as much, or at all—to her. Perhaps she barely remembered a dorkish, white, playful stranger on a beach, or someone who fled side by side with her, and kept a watchful eye, and cursed to the skies when she disappeared out of his range in her crackling way.. but he found that it didn't matter. Of course, if she straight-up told him she had no recollection of him, it might, but as it was.. the feeling of joy was his, as tentative as a ray of pale sunlight on a cold, glorious winter day. That feeling was his and he had every damn right to feel it. “The hell I am!” the little zapping beast managed to get out in response to his greeting—which, he guessed, was better than staring at him in a sort of wtf-you're-totally-mad way. And, to his own surprise, he didn't come undone in a fit of laughter—just raised one 'brow and regarded her with level, tear-stained eyes. "Of course not," he hummed in agreement, but what his face said, what his eyes and that small, curving smile said, was and you just proved it by yelling a little more. But there was no malice in the gestures. Only the only kind of warmth the snows know: thin and sparse, the glitter of light refracted through snow crystals. He said no more. Just.. waited. For her to say something. For the darkness to come back and devour him. For this blessed moment of peace to shatter and fall apart, like everything else. Maybe he waited for the change that never came, because instead of changing, he just waited. “Teeny,” but I can't take Tiny and bounce, because Tiny wasn't there, and Mauja still didn't know what you did when you "bounced". But it was, despite its ending and the rather dubious character of the black draft, a fond memory—a memory of lightness, and that bittersweet nostalgia was the first painful stab, the first reminder that he had overstepped himself when he'd swam back into the light. The good memories held a sharp contrast, and it stung, and he retreated, step by step forced back into his cage. He blinked. Why was he always crying these days? Where did the tears come from? He was just so damn tired, it seemed that crying was about the only thing he could do, even when he had no reason. The bitter wind dried them relentlessly, ice flaking off his cheeks. "I.. uh," and his voice broke off when his mind found no answer. What was he doing? Aside from crying, because that hardly seemed a legit activity. He was.. standing around. Feeling sorry for himself—though that expression seemed too light, too pitiful, when it more like felt like he was trying to cling to a vertical wall to avoid falling into a black void. Trying to shake off my past. Too pretentious. Trying to find Ophelia. Too much of a painful truth, admitting something. “Who—who died?” Oh. And what do you say to that? I did. It sounded kind of funny, because he was alive enough, standing there, talking to her (well, right now he was being kind of silent). So he just looked at her, heart beating faintly beneath the layer of shadow. Who was she, this spitfire kid? Did she care, like the softness of her voice, and the cast of her eyes, implied? His thoughts stalled for a moment, trapped by the electric blue. It felt like she did.. .. and if she did.. she was the first in a long, long time who didn't just see his haggard look and spit nonsense at him about being weak, burnt-out, less than he had been. He swallowed. He didn't know if it was truth, if the quiet insistence of her questions were morbid curiosity or if there was something beneath it that actually cared.. and in a way, he didn't want to know. It could hurt a lot. But at the same time.. he didn't want comfort from a false thought. He swallowed. "The King I used to be, is dead," he finally said, his quiet voice a little rougher than usual, mirrored by the red riming his eyes. He was tired, and saying it aloud—realizing that he could never again be who he had been—didn't offer the catharsis he'd hoped for. It made him wonder if he would ever again feel light, unburdened, happy and meaningful.. for any prolonged period of time. More than just snatches of it. He blinked furiously, but for once, refused to turn his weeping eyes away. She already knew he wept; what did it matter if she had to meet his gaze through its blurred curtain? "I'm falling apart," he admitted in a small whisper. She couldn't save him. He didn't expect her to. But she wouldn't die from knowing the truth of it, either. somebody make me feel alive and shatter me RE: Orcus the Demon King - Roskuld - 01-14-2015
RE: Orcus the Demon King - Mauja - 01-17-2015 somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me
[ Sorry for taking a bit with this, it's a bit hard for me to "go back" to threads once something really life-altering has happened to the character xD so I needed a few days to, I 'unno, remember who he was before that happened... ] And it's at times like this that he wonders, what the fuck do you do now?. When you think you can hardly get any lower (just wait, you poor, fucking sod), when you think it can't get harder, and when everything is just s h a t t e r i n g ... What do you do? How do you pull yourself together, find some way to slot the fragments back together, and fit? He had broken so many times over so many years that the tiny little pieces of Mauja never came from the same Mauja, so they didn't merge and meld anymore. There were edges and gaps, cuts and corners, sharp, pointed little glass edges sticking out, hairline cracks and impact fractures—and he wasn't sure the fragmented mess that was left would be enough to hold life in his body. So what do you do? He had no answer, except to weep softly, as he had ever since he saw Ophelia again. Then, it had been sunlight drying them and sweat diluting them; now, it was a bitter wind freezing them, forming crystals on his lashes. Through the blurred curtain he peered at her. Loudmouth. The name seemed almost too cruel now, even though it was the only thing he knew her as, and it didn't matter, not really, because it was only a name.. But even when she stared open-mouthed at him, kinda slack-jawed as if something of major importance had just struck her, she seemed too.. kind for such a nickname. Because.. because she cared. Because she looked at him, and she didn't just see the icy tears flaking off his cheeks and make judgment in a dark, closed-off heart. She looked at him, and she saw something. He didn't know what. He just knew that it was something. Maybe she just.. knew what it was like, and thus, knew that the last thing he—anyone, in his situation—needed was to be ridiculed, belittled, or somehow otherwise told he sucked now. It felt unfair, that everyone compared him to the past. It felt unfair that he couldn't shake it off, even when he wanted to. That he held on so tightly to it, just like the rest of the world. A world that had inherited his legacy of frost and darkness, a Plague upon them all. It was more like a half-remembered dream than something real and tangible out of his past. His quiet admission seemed to have stunned her, because there were not a lot of words passing her lips. So much for Loudmouth, and he almost felt guilty about it now. It was just.. it was the only thing he knew to call her, though the more poetic depths of his soul spewed out shit like ljósleiftur and hlýja, things that had nothing to do with her, not really, just with what he saw in her electric eyes. But it didn't matter that she found no words. Because, it wasn't about the words—it was about what she did, and in a way, what she didn't use those cursed words for. And what she did, was care, even though she had no reason. No obligation. No loyalty. But she just did, anyway. And that way she looked at him, blubbed out three words that meant absolutely nothing, was enough. It was more than enough. It was what he needed. Something that meant more than any artfully crafted sentence dropped from stiff, porcelain lips and cold, flat eyes. More tears welled up, and he still didn't know why, or whence they came. But these tears weren't just there, he could feel them, how they fell from a wound in his soul bleeding light—her brief touch pressing against the hurt like kissing a bruise, so it still hurt but in a better way, and it was beautiful at the same time. That there still existed a little light in this world. “…Come on, it’s cold as hell.” It drew a small smile from him, dark lips curving up in a humorless kind of agreement. He wasn't sure he thought it was cold—sure, his cheeks were about to fall off with all the water leeching away his heat—but, he supposed he was used to it. He supposed it was cold, to others, and besides.. he didn't want to argue. What did it matter if he didn't think it was cold, when she did? His tail flicked against his hocks once, and when she turned to a flawless south he followed. It didn't matter where she took him either. Unless she walked him off the edge of the earth, he could live with not knowing. With a little trust. She had soothed something in him, made a brief, brittle pact of peace with his heart, and, and.. and, while he longed to find Ophelia put things right.. it didn't really matter, if he took a little longer, did it? If he took some time to nurse his own wounds? Some time to just, rest, knowing that someone out in this lonely world cared? That someone was happy to see him, even after a year or more of absence. That someone was there to tentatively nose his wounded soul. "Ljós," he whispered to himself as he followed her, his mind unable to find the exact words it wanted to describe the situation, the feeling. somebody make me feel alive and shatter me RE: Orcus the Demon King - Roskuld - 01-19-2015
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