I wish I could feel it all for you; Pollock/Any

[Kellyn]

I wish I could feel it all for you, I wish I could do it all for you

She is bored.

Harmonia had left her here, with her promise to serve the King for two years, and Kellyn has seen her only in passing, since. And as far as anyone else goes, that’d be nada. She smells them occasionally, hears their voices and their hooves carried to her on the strange wind through the canyons, but she has been very much alone. It is a ghost land, this Pangea, and she is not nearly as fond of ghost-lands as she is of some ghosts.

And there aren’t even that many ghosts here. It had been a new slate when the fae created it, and her grandfather the god-mage had only stayed long enough to ruin it, not to kill anyone. Or, no, it was rarely Carnage himself who committed mass murder and genocide. That, as Kellyn was intimately familiar, was his followers. Followers like Kellyn’s mother, who had led a Kingdom into attempted genocide of all non-mythicals. Followers like Kellyn’s mother, who are a good part of the reason that the fae had gotten so angry in the first place.

Kellyn is not her mother, and she’s not sure she has the stomach for mass murder, but she actively dislikes the fae and their meddling ways, and she knows as well that she is not as pure of heart as her father’s side of the family. Despite being raised by Cagney and Brennen, a part of her wonders what it would be like to be like Elite. To go after what you wanted, with no concept of consequences or the hurt you cause. A part of her remembers her mother, lying catatonic for many years after her defeat and then never being quite a whole person, and thinks it is not worth it. But a part of her wonders if she could do better.

But, for now, she’d settle for simply doing. Something. And so she goes in active search of this man she has sworn to serve, to see what might be done.

Kellyn

the girl who walks in time and talks to ghosts
daughter of cagney and elite

@[Pollock]/@[Berber]

[Waylan]

Waylan

Boredom. A sullen word to characterize a sense of doing nothing, where the mind has lost interest. Certainly this was something that didn't belong, here, in Pangea. Pangea was a land of mischief, where anyone could do anything, so why was there a need for boredom? Perhaps it was the severe silence howling within the cavernous canyons, or that lack of life lingering within the shadows, or maybe was it their absent king?

He had been watching her, circling her like a vulture scavenging for fresh flesh. Her boredom, and lack of interest made him perplexed. She was bored her but why? Just think of the possibilities to be done here; torture, hunting, massacring. So much fun riddled within the blood stained earth, of Pangea but, she seemed so uninterested in the endless freedom. While he, an artisan in his own art, the art of killing. Had gathered a collection, a collection of skulls from his prey. Trophies, encasing his art. Why was she so uninterested?

Although this stranger he had been stalking, caught his curiosity when she began to search. She searched, for the one and only, tyrant king of Pangea, Pollock.  

A crooked grin is fitted smugly upon his velvet lips, as he trails the girl. Tendrils of dying vegetation grazing his hocks as he strode quickly, trying to keep in pace with her, a women on a mission. Her determination was remarkable for such a rather uninteresting creature, and uninteresting create filled with surprises. He continues to follow her for a period of time, until she halts..it's rather abrupt in fact he merely almost runs straight into her hind quarters. But thankfully he stopped himself, redirecting his course so he could circle her like shark.

Releasing wretched cackle, Waylan allows himself to appear. His silver dappled body glistening in the low light, as his wickedly handsome cranium raises in a rather arrogant notion. Allowing gleaming candy apple red iris's to linger upon her frame. His silver toned tail whisking at his hind quarters, with such confidence. 

With rugged, coarse vocals, "Are you looking for something dearie?" His cruel gaze falls upon her allowing crimson gems to interlock with hers. His temptation, his bloodlust pumps through every vein in his body, forcing himself to deny himself from plucking flesh from her corpse. "Or perhaps someone?" He chuckled, as a roguish smile tugged at the corners of his lips.  

He's So Bad, But he Does It So Well

[Pollock]

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray

Boredom.

It festers.
He finds it rankles his appetite, makes him hungry.

Makes his restless.

It should come as no surprise. For those with some idea of his sense of ‘fun’, such reticence sounds more like a thunderous warning than an impotent buzz; a calm before the storm. He has always been a man of pleasures; he has not always been a man capable of exacting such things, but since returning from the North, he has never hesitated to wet his lips. He sought out his toys and altars and absolutions, wolfishly; and when it came time, he faced those insidious ghosts meant to make him pay, in sleep or insomnia.
(Nothing is ever free.)

He never said he was meant to be a ruler; he was born in mud and baptized in ice and then once again, reborn, in viscera – only, when a god-king lifts the crown from his head and sets it on your own… well, it feeds the ego, you see.
But it does not feed the fun. Or so he has found, thus far. It can be hard to scratch some itches with a hellish wasteland draped across your shoulder. So he had set it down, let it sink into the dust and grow boring. He shrugged it off and paced the warped teeth of Pangea’s cliffsides, alone. He lingered, more often than not, on her northern spine where he can smell the saltwater and be reminded of familiar, comfortable memories.

(Her, finally. Laid to rest in sand and brine. Bitch. Craven, piggish whore.
The washes. Those ablutions, where he would shutter his eyes tight and dip his horns into the ocean.
From them, it would take his sins – those shards of white, like eggshells; those bits of pink, like minced meat hanging on the ridges – and relieve him of their burden.)

But, nothing is ever free. This crown, least of all. Eventually, he came back, bathed again in ocean water, clean and clear-headed. He had mulled over that which needed to be settled in his mind; he has decided what needs to be done, but not yet who needs to do what.
With that, he shrugged the wastes back into his shoulder.

Today, he is motivated. The giver-king spies them from up high. The man he has seen with Bruise on more than one occasion, who he remembers vaguely from the first meeting as having wandered in, so very uninvited. And the new girl, whom he has seen from atop his throne of limestone, scurrying with the other rats.
Neither he knows any better than the other.

Time to make appearances. He descends from his high tower, passing by twisted stone columns and walls, some marked by the shallow, chalky gashes make by his horns. ‘Are you looking for something dearie?’ He smirks, moving to them slowly, if only to let him play. Boy will be boys. “So?” his voice is gravelly and suffering slightly from underuse, but still, it snaps and growls, even when it is quiet. Even when it does not mean to, “is it something or someone, woman? Who are you?” He eyes her with those hard, stern black eyes, his lips straight and unkind.

POLLOCK
the gift giver

[Kellyn]

I wish I could feel it all for you, I wish I could do it all for you

So far she has had little use for her powers since Harmonia restored them; a tug at the web of time around her here and there simply to reassure herself that she can, a couple of ghosts that lurk around, but more than an actual need to use her powers is the overwhelming feeling of relief of having them. But still it is her first instinct when he appears in the corner of her vision to snatch at those threads of time, to force time itself to slow while she tenses, prepared to skitter away from the threat, ears pinned to her head.

But even in slow motion it is clear that he does not lunge at her, does not threaten beyond his appearance, and Kellyn lets time slide back into its rightful path before he speaks, inhaling slowly and allowing herself to unfreeze, though the rigidness does not entirely leave her form. She knows nothing about the residents of this place besides Harmonia, but she knows enough. From the magician’s words, from the scents that linger in the air; it is enough to make it clear that monsters dwell here. The little mare sweeps a long look over the stranger, before lifting green eyes to his red. True red, and she clamps down on the urge to shiver.

A tiny voice in the back of her head whispers, what have you gotten yourself into?, but Kellyn ignores it, and counts herself grateful that her self-appointed spirit guide ancestors haven’t yet found her here. She is quite sure that this isn’t what either of them imagined when she promised to not be like her mother.

Before she can decide if it’s worth answering him, another joins them. The strawberry girl gives him just as long of a look, lingering for a moment on his impressive horns, his single wing, his dark gaze. Thankfully not red, but certainly not friendly. “Someone,” she says at last, eyeing both stallions. “My name is Kellyn. Harmonia restored my powers, and I swore fealty to the King for two years in return. I’m looking for him.” Despite her circumstances, a quite small mare looking at two stallions who aren’t doing anything to make her feel comfortable, Kellyn’s words are calm and almost sweet in their tone, a smile slipping onto her face as if this is an everyday conversation.

Without her powers, Kellyn had been alone and afraid. With them, she is afraid of very little.

Kellyn

the girl who walks in time and talks to ghosts
daughter of cagney and elite