.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
01-24-2017, 12:34 PM
There was nothing they could do.
The boy had always been taught that effort, that motivation, that drive, tenacity, and defiance meant something, that no matter the trial, no matter the tribulation, it could be conquered by trying, by attempting, by digging in, by forgoing weaknesses, by forgetting flaws. Grim faces and miserable words didn’t win wars, and pleading and begging didn’t forge battles.
But as he watched the world tip on its axis, as he witnessed and felt his magic be deliberately cast aside, ignored, disregarded, as he stood still and stared into the avenue of absolute chaos, mayhem, bloodshed, and ruin, the reality began to slowly sink over his mind.
They weren’t powerful enough. They weren’t smart enough. They were nothing in the face of this God. They’d believed they’d conquered them – and they’d been led straight into their snares.
Enna whispered something to him (attack the altar, but then others did it and that didn’t matter either) and then was gone, striving to heal one of the many who couldn’t get out of the way in time. Rikyn wandered somewhere nearby, just as out of place, just as shorn, just as shocked, rendered immobile. Aithniel and another seemed to be clawed out of the sky, ripped from the heavens, torn by belligerence and abhorrence, by the unknown they seemed incapable of defeating.
There had to be a way, but he couldn’t see it, couldn’t understand it, couldn’t sense it through the patterns of warfare, through the murky calls and the oaths of warriors; and perhaps it would only be later, when they’d learned, when they’d retreated, when they’d returned, licked their wounds, and tried to comprehend what had just occurred.
But retreating sounded like failure, and he couldn’t accept it. Not again.
So instead of wandering, instead of glaring, instead of dropping to his knees and wishing for salvation to Gods that couldn’t hear them, he chased after Aithniel’s fallen form, down into the rivulets of dust, dirt, marsh, and blood, incapable of doing anything other than standing guard, gazing down at a figure he’d once thought of as a friend, and wondering when the mayhem would cease, useless all the more.
[Goes to stand guard by @Aithniel. Brief mentions to @Enna and @Rikyn.]
The boy had always been taught that effort, that motivation, that drive, tenacity, and defiance meant something, that no matter the trial, no matter the tribulation, it could be conquered by trying, by attempting, by digging in, by forgoing weaknesses, by forgetting flaws. Grim faces and miserable words didn’t win wars, and pleading and begging didn’t forge battles.
But as he watched the world tip on its axis, as he witnessed and felt his magic be deliberately cast aside, ignored, disregarded, as he stood still and stared into the avenue of absolute chaos, mayhem, bloodshed, and ruin, the reality began to slowly sink over his mind.
They weren’t powerful enough. They weren’t smart enough. They were nothing in the face of this God. They’d believed they’d conquered them – and they’d been led straight into their snares.
Enna whispered something to him (attack the altar, but then others did it and that didn’t matter either) and then was gone, striving to heal one of the many who couldn’t get out of the way in time. Rikyn wandered somewhere nearby, just as out of place, just as shorn, just as shocked, rendered immobile. Aithniel and another seemed to be clawed out of the sky, ripped from the heavens, torn by belligerence and abhorrence, by the unknown they seemed incapable of defeating.
There had to be a way, but he couldn’t see it, couldn’t understand it, couldn’t sense it through the patterns of warfare, through the murky calls and the oaths of warriors; and perhaps it would only be later, when they’d learned, when they’d retreated, when they’d returned, licked their wounds, and tried to comprehend what had just occurred.
But retreating sounded like failure, and he couldn’t accept it. Not again.
So instead of wandering, instead of glaring, instead of dropping to his knees and wishing for salvation to Gods that couldn’t hear them, he chased after Aithniel’s fallen form, down into the rivulets of dust, dirt, marsh, and blood, incapable of doing anything other than standing guard, gazing down at a figure he’d once thought of as a friend, and wondering when the mayhem would cease, useless all the more.
[Goes to stand guard by @Aithniel. Brief mentions to @Enna and @Rikyn.]
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
