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Three Kings of Orient - Roskuld - 06-25-2017 Roskuld & Zchiraxicon Where there's no Law tying my heart from the start..
I’d snapped once before, and that was right after Big Toto had died. I remember--it felt like I had risen out of my body, like my whole soul had been slapped out my bones, like I was a ghost with a corpse that could still walk and talk even if I wasn’t the one walking and talking. @Mauja @Tembovu RE: Three Kings of Orient - Mauja - 06-25-2017
i am the vanguard of your destruction
You need something to hold on to. He didn't have much. His soul read something like, caution, slippery when wet, and after half a year in the sea, he felt soaked through his bones. If he lost his mind enough in the long nights and slow mornings, he was sure he could hear it slosh around in there... No. He couldn't. He hadn't gone that far, but he found his mind wandering in uncomfortable ways. It wasn't just the usual problems of almost killing himself—it was everything else, as well. It seemed he'd washed up on shore—not that the Marsh was a shore, he'd gone up against it like driftwood, another bloated corpse—at either a great time, or a terrible time. Either it was a coincidence, or there was a reason. You know, Mauja, Champion of the Moon, here to save the world. Except he couldn't save anything. He was weaker than a newborn kitten with a cold, only his sneezes weren't even half as cute. He moved like someone twice his age, joints thick with arthrithis and inflammation, when his were only tired because he didn't have the good sense to either die, or at the very least, remain still. No, he paced like a ghost, along the crumbling limestone edge of his fucking cliffs. And it made his joints ache. It made his muscles ache. His steps were halting. The hoof had to be solidly on ground before he moved the next, and if you were close enough, you could hear the pained exhalation each time his weight shifted against his aching bones. He wondered if he'd grow old in this manner—spend the rest of his immortal days slowly hauling his inflamed self around the world, and accomplishing pretty much nothing, because even some half-done yearling could knock him over and bust his ribcage when he was like this. The lesson to learn? Don't fucking die. And later, don't be fucking immortal. But for some reason, it wasn't the edge he paced then—it was the border, sort of. He wasn't on the border like a border patrol, because he wouldn't be very useful if somebody thought to wreak havoc now that their god was gone, but what was the point of committing this land to memory, if he only walked part of it..? The sound of glass shattering reached his ears, and, sluggishly, they poked forward. Now that was interesting, because there wasn't much left of the wall to shatter, so.. had to be something else. Like, a defense spike, because he was pretty sure they had them, even though he wasn't very up to date on the state of affairs the past year or two. What he found, took his breath away. Stopped his heart for a bit. One of the spikes loomed broken, and there was, well, Elding, wielding her sword and prancing about with what he assumed was Chicken. He didn't know what they were doing. Or why. It might seem like a dance, like play, but—there was something. Some kind of underlaying darkness, a desperation of sorts, just.. just something that made it off. He seized on to the only thing he could. It smacked up from the ground, nowhere near in danger of spearing either Roskuld nor her friend, but it punched towards the sky with alarming speed—it glittered in the moonlight, its edges crisp and cold and sharp. The ice spear stood silent—fog forming like breath around it. If she wanted things to break, he had an endless supply of them. RE: Three Kings of Orient - Roskuld - 07-02-2017 Lightning strikes every time she moves
Schwing, schwing--damn, we shoulda done this more often. I ain’t never known Chico to be much of a sword fighter but damn, he was giving me a run for my money. Using his heavy wings to bat at me and give him leverage as he angled that sharp, poignant crystal shard in my direction, at my face and eyes and chest, and he caught me once in the shoulder blade and I giggled at it and kept swinging Sparkmarrow, making him titter back on his feet. I could feel the glass beneath my feet--I could feel a prick here or there, and all that did was remind me I was alive. Then there was a flash behind me: a flicker of movement, of brilliant icy blue, and I was moving before I registered entirely what it was. Sparkmarrow whistled in the air, bristling and crackling with sparkshit, and it turned out to be another spike rising up from my command, delayed and stupid and it didn’t fucking matter anyway cuz--crASH-- Sparkmarrow shattered it just the same, except this time it was even more satisfying, an even larger, more explosive cloud of glass shimmering around me again, the most violent disco ever. The shards shimmering and cold--so much like ice. My attention was pulled from Cheek, so I didn’t notice the way he paused, his mouth gripping his sparkling blade, tawny amber eyes boring into the white spectre that had joined us. It was the careful stare of a cornered animal, when it doesn’t know if it should feel fear yet--when he’s not sure if you’re here to steal his kill. What? Chico stood square and still as he watched Lee, even as Lee was giving me more things to shatter, more poetic irony to douse myself in and give me some kind of feeling, even if it was something self-righteous and dumb and lost. What? "In ornare vitae leo eu volutpat." Chico and Roskuld RE: Three Kings of Orient - Mauja - 07-06-2017
i am the vanguard of your destruction
His breath pooled, white and cold. He felt the spike break, a tremor in the flimsy magical connection; he felt it, and he saw it, a rain of frosted blue shards. It fell around Roskuld, hard bits of ice, but not as sharp as glass. Exhaling softly, he released his grip on it, and what was left of the spike fell apart around a thin, foot-high cracked spire. He wasn't sure he had ever seen her wield her sword before. He.. he wasn't sure he even know who she really was; the child of Ophelia and the Spark God, but what else? What more? Who had she become, in the past few years? She had helped find him in the glacier. Mesec had helped, too. It somehow felt ironic, that the children of the Gods came to his rescue. And I should be grateful, he thought, blinking away something that stung like shame and pride, for having such friends. The uncomfortable feeling swelled inside his thin chest, behind the jutting point of his breast. He couldn't label it, didn't even want to, but he didn't know what to do with it without labeling it either. It got stuck in his throat, stuck in the display of ice shards flying as the sword dove through it. Got stuck in the sharp, amber eyes levered at him. He didn't freeze like a deer in the headlights, but he couldn't move either, pinned by the gaze—his breath pooled, its rapid pace a telltale sign of his state, if the hollows around his ribs and flanks didn't already give it away. He wasn't sure he wanted to move, either; Elding's back was turned. She didn't know that he was there. It was just her and Chico and the shattering ice. He almost preferred it that way. He almost wanted to be nothing but a ghost, a broken bit of memory, come to offer some kind of relief and then melting back into shadows—there and gone like nothing more than a breath of air. He shifted, slightly, and his bones groaned in protest. Something strained in his soul. He'd reached his limit. When the last spike shattered—and there hadn't been that many of them to begin with—no other rose. It was just them and the ice dust settling slowly. His pulse roared through his veins, and hammered in his head. His sides heaved. He said nothing. He didn't have the breath to. |