"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
01-14-2017, 08:22 PM (This post was last modified: 01-17-2017, 08:02 AM by k i l t e r.)
Kilte
R
the feelin' like you're smilin' even brighter when the weather's shit
T
here is life and there is death. There is Death and there is the Angel. There is choice, and there is coerce. There is so much, and so little, that the lupine telekinetic knows. There is Death before him, no longer giving him a path to choose - no longer is he a savior in the storm, but the creator. He is sharp, visceral, a force to be reckoned with. And his Angel - a light in the the storm, a blue blooded creature hell bent on saving, she remains the same. But Kilter is not sure - she is tense and tight when he moves to console her. She pulls back, as if his touch will elicit mortality. Her smile is like a thing of condolence - and Kilter takes it as an apology to his mortality. She can heal, her skin folding over itself, she does not need the tendings of a small child. His head bows with shame- how could he not know that she possessed magic inside her? That she could dust herself off and carry on, her sails mended by the heavens. He was a fool. And still, she steadies herself and states she will walk. Her steps will fall next to Kilter’s, a guardian to death. As he steps back from his Angel, Death dictates his next move. Kilter is to go to Pangea - Death’s home. How strange, for Death to have a home, but we all must rest our head somewhere. Kilter nods, almost monotonously - a machine following commands. And follow he does. His knowledge of Beqanna is miniscule - but there is a haunting in his head, Death’s voice echoes in his head, prodding his body along where Kilter falters. He is a puppet on strings, his feet placed before him one after the other to Pangea. He routinely turns back, his eyes searching for his Angel - but she does not come. Death would not lie to him, would he? His Angel was safe, protected, an act from God. Death could not quell her, no matter their scraps of argument. She would come. She must come. Time passes, slowly, a journey across the world - it seemed like. And finally, he arrives. Death’s voice resonates as Kilter crests the canyon - Pangea, boy. And Kilter begins the trek down into Death’s home.
She raced. Her strides swallowed the distance, amber eyes set in determination. Resolve. She would stand at his side, protect him as he walked himself into the belly of the beast. She would take his hits and they would heal. She would smite any who challenged their lives. She was his.
His..Guardian Angel.
She wouldn't think of herself that way, but she shamefully knew he did and did not correct him. She should. She would. But for now, she would allow herself the praise that it felt like. She loved that he called her Angel. But he needed a name. When she found him, placed herself at his side where she was meant to be, she asked him.
Are you hurt, boy? What is your name? She called him 'boy' simply because it is what he was. A boy. She was not much his elder, in truth.
She nosed at him openly, examining him for wounds and abrasions. She cursed herself for not having the ability to heal them, but luckily there were none as major as that. A true angel would be able to heal him too. Hers was a selfish magic that she chose to use selflessly. His Angel.
He was so thin, and nearly toppled over at her firm pushes. That stupid bastard, she swore under her breath. What idiot sent a starving child to a damn wasteland? Seeing that he was sound, she immediately turn to her next priority and scanned the land for a food source. This place was terrible. Her blue nose lifted as she tried to track any form of nourishment for him. She didn't detect any, but she naturally fell into the lead anyway.
Come, she said somewhat gently. We need to find you food. That stupid beast. A wasteland. She led them away, deeper into the land of devils, a boy and his angel. By sheer luck, they happened on a small pool soon after with a number of little leafy shrubs. She grimaced. It would taste awful, but at least it was something.
Eat. We need to seek shelter when you are finished. Her own stomach growled quietly, but she ignored it. He needed everything that was here. She would find her own some other time. So she stood as his sentry, scanning the area carefully. No one would harm him. She would find a way to get them out of this situation. For now, she knew they must heed the beast. Deimos. He had the power to know where they were, and if they escaped. She would not unleash his wrath on the boy. He could save that all for her.
the feelin' like you're smilin' even brighter when the weather's shit
H
e is not alone for long once he reaches Death’s house. He had been guarded by the voice of Death as he plucked his way through Beqanna - not once running into foe nor friend (perhaps this was Death’s doing). And now? Now he saw the crest of his Angel topping the canyons. Her body was dark silk, glowing in the setting sun, and her hair rifled through the wind like fire. She had come - he would not need to face Death alone.
Her voice sings to him, a siren song that whispers in his ears like a salve for his sorrows. Was he hurt? His body was sunken, his skin bit and raw by the cold, his legs marred by his battle through the woods - but he was whole, he was alive. He shook his head as his Angel nudged his spindly legs and ribbed sides - her touch was serene, the first he had had in too long, and his eyes closed slightly. The image of his mother appeared, nosing him and his siblings the same way, as his father lurked in the corner. No, this was nothing like that - his mother, like his father, had been all business - cleaning off one foal and then on to the next. His Angel, however, touched him like he was new born again; gentle and careful, thorough but tender. Even still, his body shook when she touched him, his legs threatening to spill beneath him, his breath ragged.
He is broken from his thoughts - his name, she asked for. He had only spoken his name once, to the wolven creature that lorded over him in the woods. How long ago had that been? How foreign did his name feel now? “Ruan..” He spoke quietly, pulling the name from his foggy thoughts. That had been his guardian’s name, hadn’t it. Ruan. Kilter blinked blearly up at his Angel, his head cocked almost in confusion, his mind swimmingly delirious, his thoughts hard to grasp.
She curses, and Kilter smiles lucidly - he did not think that angel’s spoke like his father had. He nods, as she lightly takes off, picking her way down the canyon. His body was tired, his feet ached and blistered where the snow had taken their hold, and he stumbled after his Angel - knowing the only reason he could keep moving was because of her, his beacon of light before him.
Blindly, he followed, unseeing to the wasteland around them - a cragged and ugly place. She stops, and he bumps into her, sidestepping slightly. Water - food; things he could not remember seeing in some time. Again, she orders, and again he listens - his Angel would keep him safe.
Greedily he drinks, the cold water burning him like fire, but quenching the parched desert throat he had come to live with throughout the winter. Foliage too, dry and brittle things that fell far short of the nourishment he once knew - but beggers could not be choosers, and he had his fill until his small belly was round and bloating.
Once done, he looked to her - she was unmoving, only her eyes and her ears swiveling alert and atent. Satiated, he comes to her again, “Do angels have to eat?” Kilter surveyed the harsh land around them, a fitting place for Death. “Have you been to Death’s home before?” His head cocks in question. “What are we doing here, Angel?”
His eyes closed as she examined him with a trained eye and firm touch -how many times had she done this very thing for Lauchlan after sparring?- and she began worrying he was too weak and might pass out. Her nudges carefully became disguised foundation, steadying his frail, little body with her inherent strength as she looked him over. She grew further concerned when he answered his name, looking and sounding disoriented, his eyes hazy. Ruan.
She supposed it was a handsome enough name. Strong, solid. He would fill it well, one day.
It wasn't until after he'd satisfied his hunger that they spoke again. "Do angels have to eat? Have you been to Death's home before? What are we doing here, Angel?" She glided back to his side, loaning him her body heat as the sun began its slow, cooling descent. It would soon cast a fitting blood red over this hell of a land and pitch them into darkness.
She wasn't, by nature, affectionate -she was a champion, a shield, not a lover- and so their closeness was new and strange. It took a constant effort not to fidget away, especially as it reminded her of Deimos's earlier attentions, but she held herself still for him because he needed it. She studied him for a moment with bright amber eyes, considering his questions, then turned her gaze outward again. Even when she was still, she was aware of everything around them.
I need to eat to keep up my strength, but I can go prolonged periods without when necessary. She supposed real angels probably didn't have to eat, but he was really asking about her.
As her body would try to deteriorate from starving, her magic would reverse it. But explaining the long-term effect of that would require making him aware of the side effect, her weakness. Because she could only do it for so long before it would deplete her. Without food, she would not regain the energy to wake up again. It would take about a full month or two without food to get to that point, she supposed. She had never had to test it. Lauchlan had always made sure she ate, was taken care of. Now he was gone.
His name is Deimos, she said quietly, a bitter tang souring her voice. I have never been here. You are here because he wants you for something; some scheme or plot that would benefit him in some way. And I am here to make certain no harm comes to you. Her voice softened but was still firm, and she met his eyes pointedly. It was a vow, this was her purpose. She would die for him.
the feelin' like you're smilin' even brighter when the weather's shit
W
ould Kilter ever live up to his name? Ruan was a strong name, solid and steady, a barricade of a name- why was this the name he had offered up? Why had the wolf-lord’s name been the first to sprout to his lips. Kilter had not seen him in what felt like decades; was not even sure the lone sentinel was still roaming Beqanna. (Little did Kilter know that Ruan was ruling close by). But rather than his own name, the little lupine had offered up his – and his Angel took is without complaint. Did she know that his name truly wasn’t Ruan? Could Angels see the truth in everything?
The very definition of Kilter’s name was to be off-balance, teetering on the edge, preparing to fall precariously down. It was not a strong name; it did not cast off rolling waves of confidence or protection. It was an unsteady, trembling name – perhaps perfect for Kilter. His siblings were the ones to glean the more apt names for their family line – Knoxlynn, Keel, and Underwood. They were more cohesive than Kilter, it seemed. They each had some sort of mind tricks, Kilter had noticed. They spoke to one another, and their mother, without truly speaking; among other godly gifts granted no doubt by the blood of their father. It was only Kilter who faltered, who fell short, who fell out of line.
His Angel stays close, always. And it is a strange thing for the little silver boy. He had never been cared for, truly. His mother was a queen, and had three other children to hark over. His father was a king, and did not care much for children, or anyone, in general. It was only the wolves and Ruan who steadily watched the boy. And now, his Angel. His Angel who waited to eat, to drink; who staved off her needs for his. It was unusual for Kilter to see such self-sacrifice.
She speaks, giving Death a name. Deimos. So Death had a name after all, he was not simply ‘Death’. “Do you have a name, too, Angel?” Perhaps Death was not the only one with a true name, maybe his Angel had one too. There were many angels, weren’t there? They had to be called something.
His Angel’s voice is riddled with acid when she speaks his name, and Kilter can only assume that the Angel had met Death too many times with too many bad endings. And her words only continue to ring true – it seemed Death wanted him for some reason. Death was, using him? Kilter’s brow furrows – in hurt and confusion. Death had made him feel wanted, like his life had mattered, and now Kilter was just a pawn. But why? What could Kilter change in the world? What did he have that Death could ever want? But he had his Angel, and with her, he was safe. “I’m not sure.. I don’t..” He starts, but is unsure quite how to say it. “I don’t think that I have anything Death could want. I have nothing special of me. I’m no longer a prince. I have nothing. No one.”
She didn't like this. The situation was dangerous and she was missing all the facts. She could admit that she had also wondered why Death -Deimos- had chosen this boy. Why him? He didn't appear to have some valuable magic, and Deimos could probably just do any kind of powerful magic on his own. He was scrawny and barely alive, really, so certainly not his strength. He clearly was no savant genius, or he wouldn't have agreed to step into this trap. He was just a boy, confused and vulnerable. Her boy, though.
Golden eyes peered down at him again as he spoke, catching on one part in particular. A prince. He'd been a prince. What sort of kingdom let their prince wander off and get lost, starve and nearly die? Then again, the whole thing could have been part of a bigger scheme entirely planned out by Deimos to weaken the boy, get him to trust the beast so easily. It must be something in his bloodline, then. Perhaps.
"I have nothing. No one."
His tone mirrored her own pain she kept locked away. She was alone, too.
No Lauchlan. No Magnus. No one. Why had she thought of her mentor just then?
You have me, she said, turning to breathe into his hair in what she hoped was a form of comfort. You will always have me. A promise she shouldn't make, but had every intention of keeping. She knew what it was like to be on your own, without someone like Lauchlan. Having him in her life had changed her, lifted some of the smothering weight from her shoulders. She could try to be his Lauchlan if she could. Protector and friend.
I don't know what he wants with you, but we'll find a way out of this. For now, we must play his game. She hated even mentioning him, and she decided she wouldn't any more tonight unless Ruan asked her a question that required it. Now, it would just be her and him. And the silence of coming night.
I'm sorry this has happened to you. I will keep you safe. Her nose brushed his neck gently, not certain if anything she said or did was of any real comfort. If they slept at all, it would be with a burning worry in her gut. Afraid that her limit would be met, and she'd not have Lauchlan there to protect her. How could she save her boy if she were to fall?
I'm not sure where we can go from here sans-Deimos with the whole figuring out what he's trying to do with Kilter. But if you want to play it as they wake up to a new day and find something else to do while waiting for Deimos we can do that too - I'm game for anything.
Kilte
R
the feelin' like you're smilin' even brighter when the weather's shit
H
is Angel had a name, and it rang beautifully through the air. Raeg’n, like a bright and burning fire, like the soft wisps of satin – Raeg’n. And so Death and his Angel both had earthly names; however of the heavens and hell they may be, they were still grounded to Beqanna. Kilter smiled, repeating the Angel’s name quietly to himself - Raeg’n.
There were too many gaping holes in it all – Death finding Kilter steps away from his doorstep, Death cajoling him into life, his Angel appearing like a desert mirage. None of it made any sense. Death was too powerful, all powerful in fact – why would he want Kilter, a half dead thing without any royal title, without any home, and without any allies. It was just Kilter and his Angel – and Death could not have known that the Angel, Raeg’n, would have come to save him. It was too perplexing indeed. Was Kilter Death’s prisoner now? Death had not given anything to him, so Kilter did not think he owed something in exchange, right? And yet he had traveled to Pangea, for reasons unknown to himself.
Kilter is quiet, brooding over the murky points of the past day – when his Angel speaks. He is not alone. Her breath is warm on his body as the setting sun dips temperatures into the chilly spring night; it is a cocoon around him, a comfort, something he had not felt since birth. Her tone is solid, reassuring, a promise that he would not face Death alone.
But even the Angel admits she does not know his plan – that she is as confused as he is. Death’s game was a disconcerting one, it seemed, with no real answers, and no way to find out. It was simply time that would give them the end game, time and the appearance of Death. When would he come to them? When would he answer their riddled thoughts of what would happen next?
Kilter sighed deeply, his jagged ribs rising and falling – contentment for the first time since winter began. He leans his silver body into the Angel’s blue one, and together they look like a starry night sky. “Thank you, my Angel.. My Raeg’n.” Her words wash over him, giving him the slightest sliver of hope that his life was about to change – that he would no longer be the castoff son of Eight and Topsail, the child without a gift, the prince who only roamed with the wolves. He had a friend, not just Ruan who he communicated with in the wolven way of silence, but his very own Angel.
His eyes grew heavy, his body tired from the last few months of flirting with death and disaster. And for the first time in what seemed like forever, he fell into a deep and restful sleep.
There had been a hot minute from the time he had taken flight there in the middle of the blizzard, and when he touched down in that nasty wasteland known as Pangea. A bleeding scar, the land there was harsh and rocky. Only the hardiest could survive… and Deimos was beyond cheating Death.
He, according to Kilter, had become Death.
It was an everlasting curse; eternity of ever wandering, never having peace, and being able to process the thoughts of another. It was a heavy burden that he and others like him carried—the fate of the fae and the ability to hear their thoughts, and weild it against them. His headspace was so crowded, that at times, Deimos would disappear to this place just to get peace from all the noise. The entitled want of those who considered themselves “good.” The gimme gimme gimme.
It was disgusting.
Hardly ever was anyone deserving of anything, but still the lies they tell to themselves… they deserve it because they are good. Lies.
There was nothing more real, honest, and becoming than those who were honest with themselves and acknowledged the dirty little sins that roiled around in their heads, and their hearts. Deimos merely acted as he wished and took what was his. He scratched out a living, obtaining the power that he had found for himself.
He was the most alive dead thing, and in acknoweldgeing his darkness, was more honest than those of the light.
Just so, that little hussy Raeg’n. She was the biggest liar he’d known in a lifetime.
Because he could read her thoughts, and she was no saint.
And so, he looks around for her, his little skylark, and the boy that had attached himself to them.
