the Rift


[OPEN] The house is f a l l i n g down

Ricochet the Incendiary Posts: 133
Deceased
Stallion :: Equine :: 15.2 hands :: 5 years Buff: BULK
Blu
#1

 Ricochet
image by Annadriel @ flickr.com</style>


There has long been a debate of the importance in nature compared to the importance of nurture. Just what defines us, as individuals? We all share similarities to a certain degree with each other, be they outward appearances like our shared physiology, or inward like the unavoidable response of our brain to certain stimuli. There are even things, deep within us, like our capacity to feel, that we innately have in common to some base line. Yet for all of our similarities, our differences are numerous and exceptions, mutations even, run rampant in what is considered normal, or the same between us, creating outliers of differences.

We have thought it is within our blood, so select our family with care.
We have prayed it is within our faith, so preach to our young.
We have hoped it is within our experience, so teach our young.

But which is it, our blood, our gods, or our existence that defines us? If it is all of them, which plays a more important role?

This we have and continue to wonder.
There is no denying that two newborns with arguably no experience may reveal one that cries for everything while the other laughs.
You cannot be blind to the fact two lost souls may find their way with religion, one in taking it into their heart, while the other escaping its oppression.
Argue if you will, but identical twins raised by the same family still end up different when by all accounts they are exactly the same, only their inner perceptions of their life permitting divergence.

Probably most important of all though, you're wondering what the fuck this has to do with Ricochet.

The buttermilk boy is a prime example of these key points.
He boasts the blood of those who have spilled it frequently. Is it those stains that have led to the ones on his hooves?
He has wandered without belief in the gods, whispering but one name, Nieque in his greatest times of need. Is it that false god that damned him to his hell?
He has lived in the shadow of a man called 'great', but who's racism gripped him so fiercely he beat it into his child. Is it those bruises and wounded confidence that urged him to inflict the same?

In all of his days wandering this planet, Ricochet had never met someone willing to linger at his side long enough to pull him from his own darkness. His anger, his fire, his ignorance were only met with the same and he had only two choices, to climb above it or fall beneath it. Had someone appeared at his side and shown him another option, what would his life have been?

Even now, in his last moments, Ricochet was alone. Since becoming a wraith Guns had abandoned him, their souls never linked and as such their existence based on some mutual benefit and communication. The dog had tried, that had to be said, but even so he had left, swallowed by the shadows.

The Incendiary wandered through the abyss, his body mostly normal aside from the constant movement that blurred his shape's outline. It had a motion similar to a dance, twisting and turning, rising and falling, swaying and flickering.
Ricochet was engulfed in flames.

Swathed in deep violets and pale onyx, The Incendiary burned day in and out, trudging through these shadowlands as though trapped in his own personal hell. Forced to re-live the torturous event of being burned by dragon fire, he began to descend into madness, though some may argue his fall started long before then. His anger, as violent as ever, crackled outwardly until it seared him down into his very bones. A restless need drove him forward, a hunger for something that rattled in his chest with every breathe, yet he found no satisfaction - all of the pure had gone underground. He had nothing to prey upon, and no one to drain him of his wrath.

So Ricochet burned, alone.

Like ashes, his mortality wrinkled up and drifted from him in bits and pieces, scattering into the wind. His thoughts, his memories, his ethics burned beneath the vile flames, a forest slowly being engulfed until one tree was left standing, its roots shrinking away from the heat.
Ricochet could not repent his mistakes; he could not even remember them, could not remember himself. All he knew was fire, and that was enough.


The pale body drew to an abrupt halt, though it had been walking at little but a stagger thus far. One last time the head ruined in scars and sneers lifted, teal eyes cast about the wasteland he inhabited. He exhaled a plume of smoke. It almost seemed as if he were attempting to speak, a whisper trying to churn into a language amidst the cinders. The final tree broke apart into soot, however, and Ricochet crumbled along with his last words. Was it an apology, a lover's name, a call for help, or just a final war cry?

None would know as his body sunk to the ground with an audible thud, its noise all the more noticeable and eerie for all the silence that suffocated this diseased realm. Just like that, The Incendiary was naught but the rubble of a body, his name echoing for the last time.

Bang.

[Ricochet has died ;-;]

a gun in your hand don't make you a man



HP: 49.5
We want you for the Equine Empire.


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