04-24-2023, 11:20 AM
What does Achille know of the darkness that fell upon Beqanna? What can he say other than I’m sorry, over and over again? He watched from the highest tower in the skies above as war and bloodshed befell an innocent world.
(This world is not innocent, and perhaps the war was some karmic retribution for the chaos that exists in Beqanna; but all Achille can see is sorrow, endless sorrow in every face. Some painful projection of his own inner turmoil.)
Perhaps that is why he wanders so aimlessly, as many do in Beqanna. But to him, his wandering is the most painful, the most meaningful. He longs to return to quietude, to a life in which he slept upon a cool cloud and awoke to the brilliant sun. Achille knows he must punish himself, though—no creature as cowardly and pathetic as he deserves to live in any form of comfort. So often he walks until his limbs feel as if they’ll crumble beneath him.
Such gruesome wandering is why Achille is in a foul mood between the canyon heights of Pangea. Even the sight of another ethereal thing does not lift his spirits (it baffles him, like it once did before—but instead it baffles him that so much beauty could exist in so many different ways). He stops and looks away from her, shielding sorrowful eyes as if he is not allowed to peer at Altar at all.
“You,” he growls suddenly, swallowing a bout of anger tearing up his throat. He walks closer, still not looking directly at her.
“How can you look like that?”
(This world is not innocent, and perhaps the war was some karmic retribution for the chaos that exists in Beqanna; but all Achille can see is sorrow, endless sorrow in every face. Some painful projection of his own inner turmoil.)
Perhaps that is why he wanders so aimlessly, as many do in Beqanna. But to him, his wandering is the most painful, the most meaningful. He longs to return to quietude, to a life in which he slept upon a cool cloud and awoke to the brilliant sun. Achille knows he must punish himself, though—no creature as cowardly and pathetic as he deserves to live in any form of comfort. So often he walks until his limbs feel as if they’ll crumble beneath him.
Such gruesome wandering is why Achille is in a foul mood between the canyon heights of Pangea. Even the sight of another ethereal thing does not lift his spirits (it baffles him, like it once did before—but instead it baffles him that so much beauty could exist in so many different ways). He stops and looks away from her, shielding sorrowful eyes as if he is not allowed to peer at Altar at all.
“You,” he growls suddenly, swallowing a bout of anger tearing up his throat. He walks closer, still not looking directly at her.
“How can you look like that?”
achille
a little bit of bad thing never hurt anyone
but too much of a good thing
is like a hand on your neck
@altar