10-23-2025, 01:53 AM
i'm torn from the truth that holds my soul
i'm down in the grave where I belong --
Everything clicks into place when the maker of this world reveals himself, but there is no relief to be found in knowing. He doesn’t know who Carnage is to him, but he knows who he is to Beqanna as a whole, and this knowledge breeds a different kind of fear. He suspects that they will make it out alive, but at what cost, he isn’t sure.
Swim to me, he beckons, stilling the river as if he is doing them a favor and not baiting them into another impossible task. Fret wonders briefly what would happen if he turned his back — if he would be struck down where he stood, if he would remain trapped in this jungle hellscape for eternity, or if there was some other punishment his half-simple mind could never conjure.
In the end, he follows the command.
He steps into the water, black-bones disappearing beneath the surface the further he walks, until he is forced to swim. He tries to focus his attention on the opposite shore, to find encouragement in the idea that it was growing closer. He isn’t sure how much time passes before he comes to the realization that the shore is forever out of his reach, and that he is sinking.
Once he is fully submerged, it is as if some other force pulls him down. It no longer feels like sinking, but like falling, the surface ripped away from him at such a speed that he has hardly the time to fight it before he is nearly crashing to the riverbed below. The impact sends mud and sand cresting upward, clinging to his bones where they thicken into muscle, his skin and then armor knitting themselves back together over top of it. Instinctively, he tries to push himself upward, only to be forced back down. He walks, the movement unsettling the sediment where it floats upward - building his face, his horns, the armor of his spine.
And then he is sinking again, and he realizes that he is so tired of falling into other worlds, and wonders if this might finally be the end.
It isn’t, of course, reality slamming into him as he hits solid ground and the air rushes back into his lungs, distracting him from the sharp, sudden pain of something being carved in his side just beneath his wing. His heart beats a thunderous rhythm in his ears as he foolishly spins in a circle, and finds himself wondering if a deadly jungle is worse than a cage.
i'm down in the grave where I belong --
Everything clicks into place when the maker of this world reveals himself, but there is no relief to be found in knowing. He doesn’t know who Carnage is to him, but he knows who he is to Beqanna as a whole, and this knowledge breeds a different kind of fear. He suspects that they will make it out alive, but at what cost, he isn’t sure.
Swim to me, he beckons, stilling the river as if he is doing them a favor and not baiting them into another impossible task. Fret wonders briefly what would happen if he turned his back — if he would be struck down where he stood, if he would remain trapped in this jungle hellscape for eternity, or if there was some other punishment his half-simple mind could never conjure.
In the end, he follows the command.
He steps into the water, black-bones disappearing beneath the surface the further he walks, until he is forced to swim. He tries to focus his attention on the opposite shore, to find encouragement in the idea that it was growing closer. He isn’t sure how much time passes before he comes to the realization that the shore is forever out of his reach, and that he is sinking.
Once he is fully submerged, it is as if some other force pulls him down. It no longer feels like sinking, but like falling, the surface ripped away from him at such a speed that he has hardly the time to fight it before he is nearly crashing to the riverbed below. The impact sends mud and sand cresting upward, clinging to his bones where they thicken into muscle, his skin and then armor knitting themselves back together over top of it. Instinctively, he tries to push himself upward, only to be forced back down. He walks, the movement unsettling the sediment where it floats upward - building his face, his horns, the armor of his spine.
And then he is sinking again, and he realizes that he is so tired of falling into other worlds, and wonders if this might finally be the end.
It isn’t, of course, reality slamming into him as he hits solid ground and the air rushes back into his lungs, distracting him from the sharp, sudden pain of something being carved in his side just beneath his wing. His heart beats a thunderous rhythm in his ears as he foolishly spins in a circle, and finds himself wondering if a deadly jungle is worse than a cage.
-- f r e t
This is a phone post and I am sorry for that
also could he have shadows (0 space) pls & thank you