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03-17-2015, 07:52 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
He was, probably, the only living soul who had seen the Throat in more than two phases—more than what it had been during this lifetime, and more than what it was now.
I'm talking about that goddamned ocean.
Because he had seen it in a third phase—as it had been many, many years ago. How many, he did not know, but many, and his guesses were as wild as his imagination. Hundreds of years? Probably. This world was old, wars and warlords having risen and fallen and gone back to forgotten dust, bones bleached by the sun and finally torn apart by wind and rain.
He had seen the Throat when it had been a forest, hardy, dry trees clinging to sandy soil, and when the peninsula had been much smaller, the ocean lapping at a shore that was not a shore anymore, but desert. In those ghost-days, the Dragon's Blood tree had seemed younger, more carefree, as if it hadn't seen as much death as it had since, in whatever calamities had re-formed the terrain, driven back the sea, and killed the forest, leaving it a lone survivor. He had walked there, phased between that world and the current world, talking to an Onni who had thought he had died, and was merely a lingering spirit come to haunt her for a moment.
The point was, Mauja had seen that old, old land, and he had seen the land of Helovia present, and now he got to see the land in what he could only call the present, still, but a more recent present.
Because where the isthmus had been there was just this huge fucking ocean.
So the Throat sat like an arrogant, vain, haughty, proud, fucking impregnable little island out at sea.
Fucking flying ponies. It made his mind dark and his heart angry. It was the kind of casual arrogance he had once lived and breathed—the knowledge that he could spear anyone just because he had a convenient weapon on his head.
Their knowledge that they could fly over those crested waves and reach their home, safe and sound, and gods—
—he spat into the sea, his owls circling restlessly. Was there some way he could go on a quest to alter gravity here? To make it so hard to fly, that they would just plummet into the sea? A lopsided grin curved his lips. Now that would be a funny thing to see... Those arrogant little shit-heads flying along all happy and unassuming and then wham, struggling for their miserable, pathetic little lives until brought low into the ocean.
If he felt kind, he'd let them live. If not.. he'd let them sink.
"Irma," he said after a moment, something thoughtful and reserved in his voice, "why am I so angry about this?"
Because come to think of it—what reason did he have to become this angry and vindictive over this? It was a shitty thing to waste energy on, and.. he had no enemies in the Throat, right? No plans to take it over with his nonexistent army? Right? Right. So why did it bother him so much?
The owl just shrugged as owls do, and as a shadow came passing by he figured it probably had something to do with Kri. Old bones and injuries ache in winter, you know, all that shit, and oh look, that shadow was Gaucho, Helovia's master-mind and puppeteered mass murderer. Latest celebrity on the block.
So there's one thing to be said about the combination of curiosity and impulsive restlessness; it makes for a dangerous mixture. Add some frustrated anger, and you get something pretty explosive.
And that is, probably, the reason that Mauja took off after the fiery, flying shape, a fleet-footed ghost chasing his shadow and only knowing where to go because his owls were faster. The Wildfire had disappeared underground next to the roaring heart, and without hesitation Mauja plunged into the darkness after him, not wanting to slow his mind enough to stop and think. There was something he had to do here—he didn't know what—something at the tip of his tongue, and he felt reckless and careless and the only thing he cared about was getting home again because he felt like he had something to lose these days.
It mattered less if he got home in pieces, as long as he was alive, so that's why he threw caution to the wind and followed sir Snake-Antlers the Dumbdumb until he could see his shiny ass. "Hey," he called, roughly, but not rude—well, okay, just about the level of rude anyone is when calling "hey" behind your back. But as with all things, Mauja's expression was open, more curious than anything, even if he knew that the anger and barbed little comments were close at hand.
There was a decidedly reckless feeling rolling through his soul. Potentially dangerous, that too; and it wasn't like he and Gaucho were friends in any way.
More like the goddamned opposite so what the hell am I doing here.
"What are you going to do now?"
I'm not cornering you I'm just genuinely curious.
And for being a 17.2 hands snow-ghost in a dark tunnel, Mauja managed quite well to appear unassuming—probably something about the way he hung to a wall, and how his head was tilted to the side.
Nothing but idle curiosity there.
Yep.
Nope.
lolwhatever.
He wasn't there to kill Gaucho, or anything like that; he was there to satisfy an itch.
[ I couldn't resist, mate. Sorry that he's a bit of an ass ><; @[Gaucho] ]
I'm talking about that goddamned ocean.
Because he had seen it in a third phase—as it had been many, many years ago. How many, he did not know, but many, and his guesses were as wild as his imagination. Hundreds of years? Probably. This world was old, wars and warlords having risen and fallen and gone back to forgotten dust, bones bleached by the sun and finally torn apart by wind and rain.
He had seen the Throat when it had been a forest, hardy, dry trees clinging to sandy soil, and when the peninsula had been much smaller, the ocean lapping at a shore that was not a shore anymore, but desert. In those ghost-days, the Dragon's Blood tree had seemed younger, more carefree, as if it hadn't seen as much death as it had since, in whatever calamities had re-formed the terrain, driven back the sea, and killed the forest, leaving it a lone survivor. He had walked there, phased between that world and the current world, talking to an Onni who had thought he had died, and was merely a lingering spirit come to haunt her for a moment.
The point was, Mauja had seen that old, old land, and he had seen the land of Helovia present, and now he got to see the land in what he could only call the present, still, but a more recent present.
Because where the isthmus had been there was just this huge fucking ocean.
So the Throat sat like an arrogant, vain, haughty, proud, fucking impregnable little island out at sea.
Fucking flying ponies. It made his mind dark and his heart angry. It was the kind of casual arrogance he had once lived and breathed—the knowledge that he could spear anyone just because he had a convenient weapon on his head.
Their knowledge that they could fly over those crested waves and reach their home, safe and sound, and gods—
—he spat into the sea, his owls circling restlessly. Was there some way he could go on a quest to alter gravity here? To make it so hard to fly, that they would just plummet into the sea? A lopsided grin curved his lips. Now that would be a funny thing to see... Those arrogant little shit-heads flying along all happy and unassuming and then wham, struggling for their miserable, pathetic little lives until brought low into the ocean.
If he felt kind, he'd let them live. If not.. he'd let them sink.
"Irma," he said after a moment, something thoughtful and reserved in his voice, "why am I so angry about this?"
Because come to think of it—what reason did he have to become this angry and vindictive over this? It was a shitty thing to waste energy on, and.. he had no enemies in the Throat, right? No plans to take it over with his nonexistent army? Right? Right. So why did it bother him so much?
The owl just shrugged as owls do, and as a shadow came passing by he figured it probably had something to do with Kri. Old bones and injuries ache in winter, you know, all that shit, and oh look, that shadow was Gaucho, Helovia's master-mind and puppeteered mass murderer. Latest celebrity on the block.
So there's one thing to be said about the combination of curiosity and impulsive restlessness; it makes for a dangerous mixture. Add some frustrated anger, and you get something pretty explosive.
And that is, probably, the reason that Mauja took off after the fiery, flying shape, a fleet-footed ghost chasing his shadow and only knowing where to go because his owls were faster. The Wildfire had disappeared underground next to the roaring heart, and without hesitation Mauja plunged into the darkness after him, not wanting to slow his mind enough to stop and think. There was something he had to do here—he didn't know what—something at the tip of his tongue, and he felt reckless and careless and the only thing he cared about was getting home again because he felt like he had something to lose these days.
It mattered less if he got home in pieces, as long as he was alive, so that's why he threw caution to the wind and followed sir Snake-Antlers the Dumbdumb until he could see his shiny ass. "Hey," he called, roughly, but not rude—well, okay, just about the level of rude anyone is when calling "hey" behind your back. But as with all things, Mauja's expression was open, more curious than anything, even if he knew that the anger and barbed little comments were close at hand.
There was a decidedly reckless feeling rolling through his soul. Potentially dangerous, that too; and it wasn't like he and Gaucho were friends in any way.
More like the goddamned opposite so what the hell am I doing here.
"What are you going to do now?"
I'm not cornering you I'm just genuinely curious.
And for being a 17.2 hands snow-ghost in a dark tunnel, Mauja managed quite well to appear unassuming—probably something about the way he hung to a wall, and how his head was tilted to the side.
Nothing but idle curiosity there.
Yep.
Nope.
lolwhatever.
He wasn't there to kill Gaucho, or anything like that; he was there to satisfy an itch.
[ I couldn't resist, mate. Sorry that he's a bit of an ass ><; @[Gaucho] ]
