Bullshit, you said.

You said into my head.

Actual words you said.

Bullshit, was the thing you decided to say to me.

The very first words you could form with your mental voice.

And it’s like…I dunno, I’d never been so proud of you before now.

You couldn’t have picked better words.

You were wrong and you felt wrong and so did the rest of the world—an entire universe I never even knew could possibly exist. And—honestly—it was doing a shitty job at doing that. I remember my Pa saying something about that bear god being “sick”. And if this was the place he had come from, then I knew full on that my Pa hadn’t been talking out his ass.

This was some Bull. Shit.

It’s no wonder my Pa had pulled that land out of the vortex of…of…whatever the hell this was. My mind couldn’t grasp it, its darkness and the twists of lime green bile and hate that swirled around so wrongly, such utter bullshit that made my eyes spin and my body throb all kinds of wrong, wrong, wrong. I didn’t know how I ended up there; the only thing I remember with concrete certainty was looking into the golden eyes of that Pretending Bitch and ream her ass a new one for trying to fuck it all up when our loved-ones were in danger (Did she have loved ones? Was she capable of stuff like that? Or did she think about it too hard—)

I guess sometime after the fight I’d been sucked into the vortex of sick that the rotting bear carcass had left behind—and I’m not sure how long I’d been in here, either.

Long enough to really know sickness, I guess.

Long enough for you to learn how to say bullshit and call out the world for what it was.

Long enough for my bones to ache, because this wasn’t my world and it was sick, sick, sick all over.

….no, I can’t say I know how long I’d been in there. It was dark though, dark in my head and in my eyes, so that it was something like…

                                  ….a dream…

…and when the world cracked around me and I felt something fresh wash over the land I wandered through—it felt like I was opening my eyes from a deep, deep slumber.

It didn’t feel like Pa but it was a god nonetheless (the buzz was unmistakable in my blood), and the rise in my spirit told me this was a power from a plane I knew well. It felt like the world tipped when the god of bones Earth (so many bones to pick with that guy) righted the wrongs of this land, just like it feels like to wake up from something too deep to handle—so my mind scrabbled to catch up to the scene that played out before me.

It was familiar (it’ll always be familiar, I should learn that soon), but that didn’t mean I had my head in it, anyway. A battle was unfurling, just like the last time—and just like the last time, dark and pale figures shifted about the claws of something yearning to fuck them up, and it turns out all of those figures were, in fact, pieces of my heart flitting around begging to be killed.

My family—my friends. All fighting a sickened god, while I laid there in the sand (fuck me) with bones too stunned to move and a head too shaken to see straight.

Bullshit.



[Team Bullshit

Summary: Has been trapped in the Rift for some time. Is thrust back into the Helovian plane along with the Riptide Isles and is too disoriented to fight. Kind of lays there and gurgles.]
"talking"

Quit Hollerin' "Why God?", he ain't got shit to do with it.