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02-07-2017, 07:29 PM
Change was inevitable; a maneuvering current, sometimes swift, abrupt, keen, smarting, and other moments a slow, laboring, listless swell – and when it came, it’d always seemed to be in surprise. The clatter of lightning was forceful and chaotic, a ripple down through her heart, poised through her lungs, sharpened and entangled over the powers contained in her core – and the Songbird knew they’d been summoned by the God of Time. There’d been so much morphing and alterations in the past weeks: between the Reaper’s death and Kaos’ betrayal, they’d been left smarting, wounded, carved out of their mountainside home into some assemblage of the unknown. What was to become of them now? Who would rise to take the deceased Lord’s place? What were they to do about the beast that had raised himself out of the Marsh, taken over a land of crypts, tombs, and catacombs? That had tricked and deceived? That had taken fallen Gods and wielded them to his benefit? The nymph had too many questions, and dared not give them voice; puttering next to Imogen until they came upon the gathering, swallowing down the bile of apprehension and misgivings. She stopped herself from quivering the moment they arrived, staring over the layers and lacquers of time and electricity, gazing out along the blooming crowd, wondering when she’d be struck down too (unworthy he might say, stripping her of her powers, of those beautiful beats of space and hours she’d been bestowed with for so long, because she’d failed out there, on that disturbing battlefield, where the silver warrior had breathed her last no matter how much Lena had tried). Strength tried to pour out of her frame, a pervading essence of durability, valor, and stalwart pride, but her head bowed against the grain, offering reverence and indulgences, too afraid, too frightened, of the enigmatic forces grinding upon their crowns. |
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