09-05-2018, 08:41 AM
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Khaedrik wakes to a world that is bitterly beautiful and cold, cold, cold. Plumes of smoke rise from his every breath and the shadows that swirl around him tingle with ice and frost. A painful reminder that he is alive, still a being tethered to flesh and bone and not some shadow-ghost, forgotten and overlooked by all.
The world was vast and shining; and empty save for the boy and his shadows.
Until it wasn´t – until a tiny morsel of defective dirt finds its way into golden fur and brittle skin. There it burrows, festers, chafes and Khaedrik stirs; as if besieged by some eerie ghost from the past. Sick, twisted magic courses through his veins; and his heart hums violently in his chest in response. <i>”Let’s go”</i> they snarl, coercing him to move his legs. And so he does, guided by the twisted disease spreading through his body, muscles bend and stretch as he builds up to a run – racing blindly through the lands of Beqanna.
His lungs burn, burn, burn but he doesn´t stop until he reaches the shore. The threnody of mud and magic fades, his mind settles and so does his heart.
Until his eyes fall on the dark figure by the shore - with scorn-black eyes that crawl across his skin like he is some vermin waiting to be crushed. And perhaps he is.
Khaedrik has heard the tales of the old god, of course he has. Though the boy has never once thought of the possibility of running into him. Perhaps it is only fitting, he thinks, as he gasps for air, monsters command monsters after all.
Irresolute wistful Khaedrik has no walls of protection to put up against the dark God’s commands, and he can only listen and gulp down the now useless air like a stranded fish. He doesn´t even flinch when the piece of pain-sharp mountain-dirt pierces his skin, only blink dumbly. He will obey the command of course, for what else can he do really? Even if the surge of seaspray on the sea-salt air invokes both longing and revulsion at once he slips into the unforgiving sea – shrouded in the oil-thick darkness of his shadows.
But the sea is suddenly alive with waves and current and lost hope. (images of <i>her</i> floating belly-up in its frothing maw passes through his mind). Ah, if there had ever been hope inside him it is decorative; a formality – a reality that has long since faded away.
Black, savage waters tug at him, inviting him down into their depths – but Khaedrik, this thing of shadow and nightmares tethered to brittle horse-flesh is not made to swim, he is flotsam, trying desperately to escape the undercurrent, flinching at every drop of seawater clinging to his pelt.
But on he swims – fighting against the memory of a girl with the image of seashore in her eye -(drowning, drowning) saltwater-slick and dead, dead, dead. A creature of stolen laughter and haunted eyes and he swims, down, down down – a sad slash of matted gold and jutting angles against the blackness of the sea.
And the ocean opens its maw to swallow him, hungry and feral, and he lets himself be swallowed, consumed by the black depths where he does not belong. And there are no anchors down here to tie him to the shore. Only the blissful will of the parasite nestled in his chest, commanding him to forget everything but finding Pangea and Khaedrik willingly obeys.
His ears can already discern the roar of the sea as it breaks upon the unforgiving rocks of Pangea down there in the dizzying chasm that has opened below him. Oh, the thing down there, riddled with archaic, twisted magic has him feel an odd sense of longing, as if his shadows sing out to the wasteland below. He paddles faster now, the waters surges – as if to help him reach his destiny and when he tastes the sea again it feels heavy and swollen with sickness and potential.
It is not until his frantic feet touch the dark rocks that he stops. The land spun of nightmares and an ancient God’s bitter failure – and there is something about it that whispers allure into his wretched ears. Perhaps because they are not so unlike, Pangea and himself. But he has served his purpose – for now, and his beetle-black eyes look around searchingly, waiting for the next command from the <i>thing</i> nestled in his chest.
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Khaedrik wakes to a world that is bitterly beautiful and cold, cold, cold. Plumes of smoke rise from his every breath and the shadows that swirl around him tingle with ice and frost. A painful reminder that he is alive, still a being tethered to flesh and bone and not some shadow-ghost, forgotten and overlooked by all.
The world was vast and shining; and empty save for the boy and his shadows.
Until it wasn´t – until a tiny morsel of defective dirt finds its way into golden fur and brittle skin. There it burrows, festers, chafes and Khaedrik stirs; as if besieged by some eerie ghost from the past. Sick, twisted magic courses through his veins; and his heart hums violently in his chest in response. <i>”Let’s go”</i> they snarl, coercing him to move his legs. And so he does, guided by the twisted disease spreading through his body, muscles bend and stretch as he builds up to a run – racing blindly through the lands of Beqanna.
His lungs burn, burn, burn but he doesn´t stop until he reaches the shore. The threnody of mud and magic fades, his mind settles and so does his heart.
Until his eyes fall on the dark figure by the shore - with scorn-black eyes that crawl across his skin like he is some vermin waiting to be crushed. And perhaps he is.
Khaedrik has heard the tales of the old god, of course he has. Though the boy has never once thought of the possibility of running into him. Perhaps it is only fitting, he thinks, as he gasps for air, monsters command monsters after all.
Irresolute wistful Khaedrik has no walls of protection to put up against the dark God’s commands, and he can only listen and gulp down the now useless air like a stranded fish. He doesn´t even flinch when the piece of pain-sharp mountain-dirt pierces his skin, only blink dumbly. He will obey the command of course, for what else can he do really? Even if the surge of seaspray on the sea-salt air invokes both longing and revulsion at once he slips into the unforgiving sea – shrouded in the oil-thick darkness of his shadows.
But the sea is suddenly alive with waves and current and lost hope. (images of <i>her</i> floating belly-up in its frothing maw passes through his mind). Ah, if there had ever been hope inside him it is decorative; a formality – a reality that has long since faded away.
Black, savage waters tug at him, inviting him down into their depths – but Khaedrik, this thing of shadow and nightmares tethered to brittle horse-flesh is not made to swim, he is flotsam, trying desperately to escape the undercurrent, flinching at every drop of seawater clinging to his pelt.
But on he swims – fighting against the memory of a girl with the image of seashore in her eye -(drowning, drowning) saltwater-slick and dead, dead, dead. A creature of stolen laughter and haunted eyes and he swims, down, down down – a sad slash of matted gold and jutting angles against the blackness of the sea.
And the ocean opens its maw to swallow him, hungry and feral, and he lets himself be swallowed, consumed by the black depths where he does not belong. And there are no anchors down here to tie him to the shore. Only the blissful will of the parasite nestled in his chest, commanding him to forget everything but finding Pangea and Khaedrik willingly obeys.
His ears can already discern the roar of the sea as it breaks upon the unforgiving rocks of Pangea down there in the dizzying chasm that has opened below him. Oh, the thing down there, riddled with archaic, twisted magic has him feel an odd sense of longing, as if his shadows sing out to the wasteland below. He paddles faster now, the waters surges – as if to help him reach his destiny and when he tastes the sea again it feels heavy and swollen with sickness and potential.
It is not until his frantic feet touch the dark rocks that he stops. The land spun of nightmares and an ancient God’s bitter failure – and there is something about it that whispers allure into his wretched ears. Perhaps because they are not so unlike, Pangea and himself. But he has served his purpose – for now, and his beetle-black eyes look around searchingly, waiting for the next command from the <i>thing</i> nestled in his chest.
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