.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
06-25-2017, 05:53 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
You need something to hold on to.
He didn't have much. His soul read something like, caution, slippery when wet, and after half a year in the sea, he felt soaked through his bones. If he lost his mind enough in the long nights and slow mornings, he was sure he could hear it slosh around in there...
No. He couldn't. He hadn't gone that far, but he found his mind wandering in uncomfortable ways. It wasn't just the usual problems of almost killing himself—it was everything else, as well.
It seemed he'd washed up on shore—not that the Marsh was a shore, he'd gone up against it like driftwood, another bloated corpse—at either a great time, or a terrible time. Either it was a coincidence, or there was a reason.
You know, Mauja, Champion of the Moon, here to save the world.
Except he couldn't save anything. He was weaker than a newborn kitten with a cold, only his sneezes weren't even half as cute. He moved like someone twice his age, joints thick with arthrithis and inflammation, when his were only tired because he didn't have the good sense to either die, or at the very least, remain still. No, he paced like a ghost, along the crumbling limestone edge of his fucking cliffs. And it made his joints ache. It made his muscles ache. His steps were halting. The hoof had to be solidly on ground before he moved the next, and if you were close enough, you could hear the pained exhalation each time his weight shifted against his aching bones.
He wondered if he'd grow old in this manner—spend the rest of his immortal days slowly hauling his inflamed self around the world, and accomplishing pretty much nothing, because even some half-done yearling could knock him over and bust his ribcage when he was like this.
The lesson to learn?
Don't fucking die. And later, don't be fucking immortal.
But for some reason, it wasn't the edge he paced then—it was the border, sort of. He wasn't on the border like a border patrol, because he wouldn't be very useful if somebody thought to wreak havoc now that their god was gone, but what was the point of committing this land to memory, if he only walked part of it..?
The sound of glass shattering reached his ears, and, sluggishly, they poked forward. Now that was interesting, because there wasn't much left of the wall to shatter, so.. had to be something else. Like, a defense spike, because he was pretty sure they had them, even though he wasn't very up to date on the state of affairs the past year or two.
What he found, took his breath away.
Stopped his heart for a bit.
One of the spikes loomed broken, and there was, well, Elding, wielding her sword and prancing about with what he assumed was Chicken.
He didn't know what they were doing. Or why. It might seem like a dance, like play, but—there was something. Some kind of underlaying darkness, a desperation of sorts, just.. just something that made it off.
He seized on to the only thing he could. It smacked up from the ground, nowhere near in danger of spearing either Roskuld nor her friend, but it punched towards the sky with alarming speed—it glittered in the moonlight, its edges crisp and cold and sharp. The ice spear stood silent—fog forming like breath around it.
If she wanted things to break, he had an endless supply of them.
He didn't have much. His soul read something like, caution, slippery when wet, and after half a year in the sea, he felt soaked through his bones. If he lost his mind enough in the long nights and slow mornings, he was sure he could hear it slosh around in there...
No. He couldn't. He hadn't gone that far, but he found his mind wandering in uncomfortable ways. It wasn't just the usual problems of almost killing himself—it was everything else, as well.
It seemed he'd washed up on shore—not that the Marsh was a shore, he'd gone up against it like driftwood, another bloated corpse—at either a great time, or a terrible time. Either it was a coincidence, or there was a reason.
You know, Mauja, Champion of the Moon, here to save the world.
Except he couldn't save anything. He was weaker than a newborn kitten with a cold, only his sneezes weren't even half as cute. He moved like someone twice his age, joints thick with arthrithis and inflammation, when his were only tired because he didn't have the good sense to either die, or at the very least, remain still. No, he paced like a ghost, along the crumbling limestone edge of his fucking cliffs. And it made his joints ache. It made his muscles ache. His steps were halting. The hoof had to be solidly on ground before he moved the next, and if you were close enough, you could hear the pained exhalation each time his weight shifted against his aching bones.
He wondered if he'd grow old in this manner—spend the rest of his immortal days slowly hauling his inflamed self around the world, and accomplishing pretty much nothing, because even some half-done yearling could knock him over and bust his ribcage when he was like this.
The lesson to learn?
Don't fucking die. And later, don't be fucking immortal.
But for some reason, it wasn't the edge he paced then—it was the border, sort of. He wasn't on the border like a border patrol, because he wouldn't be very useful if somebody thought to wreak havoc now that their god was gone, but what was the point of committing this land to memory, if he only walked part of it..?
The sound of glass shattering reached his ears, and, sluggishly, they poked forward. Now that was interesting, because there wasn't much left of the wall to shatter, so.. had to be something else. Like, a defense spike, because he was pretty sure they had them, even though he wasn't very up to date on the state of affairs the past year or two.
What he found, took his breath away.
Stopped his heart for a bit.
One of the spikes loomed broken, and there was, well, Elding, wielding her sword and prancing about with what he assumed was Chicken.
He didn't know what they were doing. Or why. It might seem like a dance, like play, but—there was something. Some kind of underlaying darkness, a desperation of sorts, just.. just something that made it off.
He seized on to the only thing he could. It smacked up from the ground, nowhere near in danger of spearing either Roskuld nor her friend, but it punched towards the sky with alarming speed—it glittered in the moonlight, its edges crisp and cold and sharp. The ice spear stood silent—fog forming like breath around it.
If she wanted things to break, he had an endless supply of them.
