"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
05-11-2015, 01:35 PM (This post was last modified: 05-12-2015, 03:08 PM by Carnage.)
lord, I fashion dark gods too;
It began like this.
They’re lovers, and have always been – wed in sickness and health, poverty and prosperity. There are no such legalities for their type, of course, and their romance has been riddled with infidelity and even blood, on occasions.
But still, they are lovers.
Ever since first meeting, they have haunted each other. He has tried, and tried again to love her like she loved him – but his kisses felt only her pulse and the promise of blood, and those images were more erotic than anything else. Still, there is a fondness for her that he has not felt for anyone else.
“What’s another word for love?” he asked once, lips in her hair, to which she replied, “passion.”
“Still not right,” he said, to which she replied, “we’re indefinable.”
**********
It falters like this.
Maybe they are lovers
(indefinable)
but words do not change the fact he has been gone for a long time, long enough for her love-ragged heart to begin its forgetting of all the ways it shouldn’t love him. Long enough for her to pine, for her heart to begin its aching on endless, lonesome nights.
Eventually when spring comes, and brings with it her heat, she finds another sort of solace. Shiv has not left her, not ever – he has been the loyal son, giving her company when he should have left a long time ago to find a life of his own.
He is a devoted, good son who loves her unabatedly and does not know much of the world, so even though the pit of his stomach tells him it is wrong, he complies when she presses into him.
She sins with him, her dear son, and knows the wrongness of it, but the warmth and love of him overcome her inhibitions.
She does not know he watches. The dark god does not judge as he observes his morbid angel and their son come together. He’s been in her spot before – they are sinners, the two of them.
He waits to show himself until she has sent Shiv off; only then does he creep forward, touching her.
Neither one speaks – she burns hot with shame, but it does not damper the passion in her kisses. She lets him into her, an old act they both know all too well.
He leaves again, after, giving her only a breathy sigh that she can’t quite decipher.
**********
It gets better like this.
By now, she is no stranger to labor. When her stomach begins the rhythmic clenching she finds a space and lays down, letting what will happen, happen. It’s not long before the child comes, sliding from her and leaving her with a strange emptiness. She looks, as she always does, for its face – for the sweet expressive eyes, the look of confusion and love.
Instead, there is only a stretch of amnion over its head. She has given birth to a stranger.
She shifts to remove it, and is startled by his voice.
“Don’t,” says her grim king.
“Carnage, I don’t know whose it is,” she confesses.
“I know, Gail. I know.”
He doesn’t know either – the child is like her, unreadable. Neither of them will ever know, perhaps.
“Leave it,” he says, and touches her shoulder gently, “come with me.”
She rises, legs weak, and casts a final glance back at her child.
“It has a caul,” she says numbly, “a bad omen.”
With that, she follows.
**********
It gets deeper like this.
She follows and for a while they are quiet. She is the one to break the silence as the forests thin out until there is black sand and blacker water.
“The beach,” she says, trying to keep the waver out of her voice, “are you going to kill me, finally?”
She’s begged for death ever since he dreamed her back, but now – now, she finds she’s not sure if she wants to die.
“No,” he says solemnly, “no one’s dying here.”
“Then what? Why here?”
“Because, my dear, we’ve been here before. Come here.”
She walks obediently to his side and presses close, as if they could melt together.
“To us,” he says, the ghost of a smile on his face, making a toast to them.
“To us.”
After she speaks, she feels his body grow hotter and hotter, so hot that she fears she might burn if she stays this close – but she doesn’t move.
She’s told him before that she would burn for him, and she wasn’t lying.
A white-hot explosion echoes across the beach, and in that moment, the black sea boils. Bones are charred and flesh cooks.
When the light fades, they are gone.
**********
It begins again like this.
There is a sense of drifting, of falling. There is a hush of voices, words she can almost make out. Everything is blurry, soft – an image can be caught for a second, but then it fades and something else appears.
Eventually the voices quiet and things slow down. They are still once more.
“What was that?” she asks before even looking again. Her heart is racing.
“Now?” he asks, and laughs a little, a low sound in his throat, “it’s history.”
Around them, the air is still. There are no sounds except their voices and their heartbeats. They are on the beach but it is not the beach.
They’ve come a long way since the beach.
She looks around. There is nothing. Only an expanse of space: flat, dead. There are no bones – they have long turned to dust. The air is scentless and still, no breeze changes the array of her mane. She breathes in deep and thinks the air tastes odd in her lungs, like plastic. She also thinks that she can taste smoke in her throat.
“Where are we?” she says, her voice hushed, although there is nothing to disturb anymore.
“We’re at the end of the world,” he says, speaking normally – his voice should boom in the still air, but the same air seems to stifle it instead.
He gestures to a place behind him, a slight shimmer. She looks at it and knows, without knowing how, that if she pressed her ear against it she would hear the susurrus of history’s voices. She knows it’s the way back.
“Go, if you want,” he says to her, “I won’t stop you.”
“No,” she says quietly, “I want to see how the world ends.”
**********
It ends like this.
They begin to walk. Distance falls behind them but nothing changes, it’s the same flat landscape, the same plastic, smoky air. She looks for flames but can find none. He pauses, suddenly. Focuses on a spot in front of them, just another flat patch of earth like all the others – there is no distinction here. As they watch, the ground smolders, and there is a brief moment of flame for it falters and dies.
“Used to be, that patch would have burst into flames, the way I was trying,” he says, “my magic’s not the same here.”
She is quiet. She has never known him without his magic.
“Last chance,” he says, “I don’t know if the hole will stay without my holding it open.”
“I’m staying,” she says.
The air has begun to seem hot, and she doesn’t know if breathing will stay easy. She has started to hear a faint noise somewhere, a sound like radio static, like teeth chewing down on aluminum foil. She wonders if he hears it too.
“What do you think happened?” she asks.
“I like to think I did it,” he says, “and that’s the reason why I don’t have much magic anymore.”
She can’t help but smile. They’re standing at the unknown and there is no real change in him. Because she knows this, she is quiet. She does not tell him she loves him. He knows.
He is the one to break their silence. In the distance, the chewing sound has grown louder. When he speaks, he has to raise his voice to be heard above it. There is no doubt that it’s real anymore.
With his lips against her neck (an old position, how many times have they been here before?) he says only a single sentence.
“We don’t have long now,” he says, and so, together, they wait for the world to end.
**********
It starts with the dreams. The dreams of the flat land they walked, years ago (years closer, too, always closer to the world’s end). The dreams filled with that sound (he had a name for them, later, when he returned and she did not - langoliers), one of the few things that has scared their dark god.
It shouldn’t matter. He’d come back, not entirely on his own accord (but ah, hadn’t some part of him wanted it, had not resisted when he was pulled back, grateful to be away from that godawful noise?).
He’d come back and Gail hadn’t.
For all his powers, he does not know what’s happened to her. He tried to go back, once, but had found himself unable.
He can go anywhere but there, back to her, back to the langoliers.
And he wonders if he’s because he can’t, or because he won’t? Because there is a thread of fear there, slick and hot. The langoliers had been unknowable, a strange force, and though he is their dark god, their skeleton king, he fears the unknown.
He thinks of time, too.
Is Gail frozen there, on the cusp of the world’s end? Did time continue to pass there as it does here?
They both always knew he’d kill her, but he never wanted it to be that way – unknowable. Never a slow, unsure ending, but an explosion, a climax of everything they’ve shared.
He’s had his distractions, of course – he’s been summoned in the Valley by that wretch of a daughter, he’s painted a generation with stars, he’s entertained himself in his wasteland’s pits with a mousy brown girl (and now, her daughter, his own little Persephone).
But through it all Gail persists, the black slip of a girl who was there for every iteration. His lover, (indefinable)
as much as anything could be to a thing such as he.
Does he miss her? It’s hard to say, hard to parse out the difference between his want for her and his frustration at being frightened of the langoliers, at coming back without his consent, at not controlling the situation.
So he thinks.
He has years and decades to think, to make a plan. He knows he himself cannot go back – paradoxes or fear or something else altogether keep him from it – but he thinks he has a plan.
He’s never been at a loss for followers, after all.
So he will choose a select few, send them in his stead. Send them after her.
And if the langoliers find them? It’s no loss of his.
He summons them easily enough.
"Come to me," says their dark god, "I need you to find her."
TL;DR:
Congratulations! (I guess). Carnage is sending you forward in time to the end of the world, where he once inadvertently abandoned his lady love, Gail (the italics post was their original goodbye and was provided solely for context, Carnage later returned to BQ thanks to another magician). For reasons, he cannot go himself.
This is a writing/elimination quest. On the way to Gail, you’ll encounter several worlds and must act accordingly.
This is (I think) a four stage quest. There’s no limit for entries, but eliminations will be proportional to the number of entries (meaning if only three people enter they’re probably all getting to the end, if twenty people enter, I’ll eliminate 4-5 per stage). Not sure yet.
Anyway!
- No limit on entries, but one character per player. No prior activity requirements.
- To enter, post an IC reply here of your entry responding to the summons and basically agreeing to go
- Failure to respond within the time limit in subsequent stages will result in automatic elimination and a defect
- Defects may occur regardless in the quest, and may or may not be genetic
- Prizes for this quest will be genetic
- You have 24 hours to enter, the first stage will be posted tomorrow at or around (depending on work) 1:30 CST.
- I also recommend you at least read a Wiki summary of Stephen King's novella The Langoliers, as parts of this quest heavily rip it off were inspired by it. Do not watch the movie, which is horrible.
05-11-2015, 01:50 PM (This post was last modified: 05-12-2015, 12:54 PM by Lagertha.)
He would call to his daughter by his battle-sister; not because he ever had faith in his multitude of children (he never did, weren’t they all eternal disappointments - even the pink one and the vampyre one?), but because she was Grimmy dearest’s daughter and if there was ever one to find Gail, it might be her.
If she had an iota of her dam’s strength, it might be enough.
She wasn’t lazy, that’s for sure.
The warrior-General hears his voice, and something in her stirs, rising foolishly to the occasion. She does not know it is her sire who calls (she’s never heard his voice, never seen his face, only known him for the dark god in childhood dreams), or that his mind-voice once drove her dam insane. Only that like calls to like - and besides, what has she to fear? She is the General of the Amazons. She is Immortal.
She is nothing compared to him and his magic.
But oh, how she yearns for more power.
“I will,” she says, and then says no more, simply waiting.
The voice is a low drone in her head. It isn't a request or a question; it's a demand, an order. Myrina looks up questionably but there is no one around her. There are only trees when she blinks away her hazy vision. Nayl is nestled in the shadows asleep. A glance is spared to the young child before the mare ventures away to abandon her child to the safety (or dangers) of the Jungle. She isn't sure what spurs her onward or even why.
Her thoughts suddenly trace back to Covet, bringing pause to her steps before shaking her head and resuming on.
Where she is, Myrina cannot say. Her golden flecked eyes drink in the scenery but it is all unfamiliar to her. So she stops. The voice had found her then and it can find her now. Her head is raised as she draws in a breath before saying, "I will." Obeying commands is what she had been trained to do as a foal and so she pushes herself now to put it into play.
She stands alone. A small copse of trees providing cover as she unleashes the anger that has been building inside her breast. It gnaws and burns, ripping, shredding, tearing it's way out her gullet in a guttural scream and manifesting itself in her lashing hooves. The silver girl feels trapped in her skin and releases her frustration on the surrounding flora.
It is as she stands panting, dripping in sweat, that she feels the voice pulse through her. Come to me. it says. A soft croon, just within her range of hearing. It placates the rage, soothes the hurt. Gives her purpose. I need you to find her. Tyrna doesn't know if the yearning she hears is a product of wishful thinking or the voice itself, but it draws her in. It pulls her close and wraps her tightly, giving her the distraction she so desperately needs. She finds her heart has stilled it's frantic beating and her breath is deep and unlabored. Drawing the air into her lungs she bobs her head and whispers back, "I will."
I wish I could feel it all for you, I wish I could do it all for you
She can’t honestly be called a follower, but the message reaches her nonetheless. Perhaps “follower” is really a synonym for “descendent”. Perhaps it’s her inevitable reality to be here, to meet him, though her father had strived so hard to keep her from this part of her heritage. Her grandfather hadn’t tried as hard – the strawberry girl had never doubted her grandfather’s love, but Brennen had watched her with a different look than Cagney (only rarely, when he didn’t think she was looking). Cagney had never seen the darkness in Elite, not truly, blinded as he was by love and adoration. Brennen had known differently, and he had lost a daughter to Elite’s war. It didn’t keep him from loving his granddaughter, but he kept a more careful watch.
And why shouldn’t he? Kellyn knew she was nothing like quiet, conservative Cagney. She was nothing like her older brother Vader. She was more like Brennen – but not alike to him, either. Brennen could be dark and hard and angry when it mattered, but Kellyn was capricious and different. For a long time, it had been enough to know that even if Cagney was a mostly absent father and Brennen watched her occasionally out of the corner of his eye, they loved her.
It was enough to be loved, and she ignored what she learned of Elite’s father. Of her mother’s insanity and her grandfather the dark magician. It was enough until he called – and then a dark curiosity welled up within, and she went. Slipped out of the safety net that had long ago been cast by her Tundra relatives, and responded to his call. Perhaps she was a follower, after all. Or potentially one. “Find who?” she asks of him, flicking a gaze over the other mares who have come. And she wonders if he will recognize her; she is not the violent pink that her dam had become, but neither was she the bright fire-red that Elite had been before. She might have been red, but Cagney’s roan softened it to a prettier shade; red at the edges but a speckled strawberry pink roan in the middle. But he’s a magician, a god – surely he doesn’t need her to look like Elite to know she’s a descendant.
She has never understood love. Not the type her mother and father had, anyway, the same type she imagines Kora one day will find. Yes, she is loving and kind, but she doesn’t love as they did. Could it even be called love? Could it be defined so simply? Perhaps. Not as love, but as passion or lust or electric attraction (quite literally) but none of those words quite did it justice either. Perhaps their love is not so impressive as to be indescribable, immortal, impossible – but it was more than just a word.
Always, when he leaves, she is reeling. Reeling at what she could be, at what she kept hidden beneath the golden skin she wore. That’s when the call comes; ill timing, maybe. But she doesn’t think so. Because she’s feeling reckless and powerful. Because in those words, in that her there’s something deeper than just a command or a request, though she cannot put her finger on the word for that either, with her head all abuzz with electric.
Maybe she shouldn’t. Probably she shouldn’t. But she does. She follows the command to the place where he waits, where the world doesn’t feel quite right but tinged with magic. Like the edges of her vision have gone all fuzzy. She doesn’t speak, because her being here is all the agreement that he could possibly need. There had been no magic behind that command, nothing to force her legs forward without her own choice. But she does growl, low and rumbling and agreeable.
It was time to stop being pretty, perfect little Rhy. Her father was gone, and she was no longer his little girl.
Nymeria did not know who he was. Although she wasn’t young she was a foreigner to Beqanna. Her parents had sprouted out of the land. They had even lived in the land, but Nymeria was not her parents. She had been born, and as swiftly as she had been born she was taken away from Beqanna. She was brought to wander the lands with her father and sister. She had never been meant to return to Beqanna, but she had.
Nymeria had finally settled down in the Orange Country with Kreios when she heard the voice. It sounded more like an echo from a distant source, and it had quickly wakened Nymeria from her usual daydreams. It had only been nine words, and yet Nymeria felt a tug at her chest to follow them. The bay mare was far more neutral than evil or good- but she did follow love. She made it a point to help anyone who asked. This voice had done just that. It asked. Nymeria listened.
With nothing more to follow than instinct Nymeria walked forward. She hoped that her hoof steps would carry her to the source so that she may help. ”Here I am” She said aloud at nobody, but the voice could hear her; she was sure of it.
i'll pick up these broken pieces 'til i'm bleeding
if that'll make it right
He summons them easily enough, but the pull of his voice is irresistible. Like silk dyed black, it is both soft and painful to listen to. Setting his skin afire, Nihlus shifts from rabbit to horse, galloping towards the summoning, towards the nightmare, towards the words which sound like poetry and taste like poison.
And when he sees him, it is more terrible than when he say Eight. Father Magic dwindles in stature when compared to the dark god placed before him, the god who needs Nihlus to find her. In that moment, the young stallion knows that this is his calling. Carnage is his calling.
Stepping closer, Nihlus nearly brushes his lips against the god, wishing for the erotic taste of soul-corrupting power, but decides against it. With little distance between them, the son of Father Magic and Mother Spring breathes himself into the quest, unknowing of just what he has cursed himself into.
"I will. For you.”
Nihlus
rain manipulating, rabbit shifting son of Sinder & Noori
05-11-2015, 10:59 PM (This post was last modified: 11-02-2016, 01:42 AM by Kortnee.)
The voice that calls for him is both known and unfamiliar and while it invites him in, it also turns him away. He can feel the ethereal prickle across his skin like sharp fingers driving him to its source, scraping delicately, pulling him closer. And although a part of him could argue to stay against Rhy’s achingly smooth throat, the echo of power in the summoner’s voice draws the titan from the golden girl’s side (he would break her innocence soon enough). “Don’t follow me,” he growls and his voice did not thrum heavily in his throat as it normally should, but lulled – as if enveloped in cotton.
“Why did you lose her in the first fucking place?” He asks, drawing up behind the bevy of mares. He would go, if only to seek some of the power that echoed in that voice.
She barely knows anything of anything, but she hears the summons. And it's not the fact of who he is (she knows nothing of him, of Carnage, of the legends) but what he asks.
I need you to find her.
She doesn't ask who is asking, she doesn't ask who she's finding. "I'm sorry you've lost her." she speaks, her voice small and quiet against the vastness of his summons. She is still so young, just barely old enough to do something like this, barely more than a babe at Scorch's breast. "But I'll help you find her again." She pauses. "I promise."
And she will, this little girl, this small thing that was born with apologies on her lips, because helping is all that she knows how to do. She is the candle in the wind, the little soul that's simply too good. She is so kind that she is simply begging to be ruined, to be dragged through the mud – or in this case, to the end of the world.
She doesn't know what she volunteers for. She only knows that she wants to help.
