what's a king to a god; all

[Carnage]

and lord, I fashion dark gods too;

The stars call out.
They call, and he feels it in his bones – a distinct ache, dust in the marrow – and he is ready to answer. He is a god, remember – not a king, though he took that title, paraded it about for a while as he stalked these restless hills.
The land is growing stronger, plants coming through the dust. He has no doubt they will grow more when he is gone, excised like a cancer. It was a canyon, once, and may be again someday.
(Or maybe not, maybe the earth here is salted, the plants with wither and die. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care to read much of the future, finds it takes the fun out of things.)

He has been stuck too long in this place, made of sick magic and disgust, and the stars call, and call, and call.
He no longer ignores the cries. He sends out a summons to the few who remain, call them forth. These few stone-eyed wayfarers too proud and furious to bow to the new rules lain upon them.
“Pangea,” he says to them – though perhaps he addresses the land itself, as well – “I will be leaving soon.”
A breath. Inhaled, exhaled. He won’t need to breathe, soon. He can almost taste the nothingness. The lull of space and darkness.
“As no one has been particularly exemplary, I’m asking you, now, to find a new ruler. Make the case of why you should rule, or nominate someone else.”
He offers this to them on a platter. This morsel. Usually he picks a leader, often arbitrarily, but he knows so few here. He knows only their faces, and little else.
So, he asks, speaking loud enough to drown out the call of the stars. For now.

c a r n a g e

tl;dr
Carnage is looking to step down and fly out into outer space hiatus and is looking for someone(s) who is interested in taking over Pangea in his wake, so please nominate yourself. or someone else. or he can just fly off and have anarchy. you can vote for that too.

[Rhae]

She slipped in the back unnoticed- or that had been her original plan when she heard his call. Unfortunately, it seemed she was the first to show up and hiding in the crowd wasn't going to happen. She debated sneaking away until others showed first, but no doubt he'd already spotted her among the vast, open nothingness and she wouldn't chance causing insult even if he was leaving.

Her head was ducked low, and as soon as she saw she was fidgeting she stilled herself. Stiff and rigid she considered her thought to nominate her protector; to have her adopted sister of a sort in a leader position would surely help secure her further safety, but now, here in his presence, she found herself mute. Her pale-blue eyes darted about anxiously, her tongue rendered completely lame as an awkward silence grew.

She'd greet him at least, really she would. Maybe. But all she could manage was to stand as a solid statue to keep herself from shifting uncomfortably, avoiding his -and anyone's- gaze, her colorless mane draped across her face. Perhaps her stillness would allow eyes to only glimpse over her, and quickly dismiss her presence.

Truly, she shouldn't have come out here where everyone could realize she even existed among them, but she should at least know who would take over after he was gone. And pray they would simply ignore her and let her disappear again. Well, it wasn't as if the dark king/god could be ignored anyway.

Rhae

when i feel lost..  i'll search the skies for you

[Waylan]

He gasps as his lungs plunder the oxygen from the unfamiliar air.  His dormant body is prickled by the petite needles of ice have grown attatched to his silver dappled body. He doesn't remember it being winter, nor.... wait WHAT THE FUCK. His blood red eyes avert to a spiraled horn sprouting out of his skull like a parasite, he isn't quite in a panic no, he's in awe of it. It was just another tool he could use to inflict agony and torture upon others. Oh the plans he had to use his new tool to slice at his fortunate victims, he could name a list of punishments and means of torture his horn would be put to use.

Limbs rise the killer upwards, as layers of snow filter off of his frame revealing his dark chocolate figure to the white glazed world. Crimson irises scan the terrain, this is different. He ponders silently, it wasn't the rocky terrain he hailed too nor was it his comrade's ashen property. Where the hell was he? Questions begin to stream through his mind like a flood. How long had he slept? Where the fuck is Mourning Mountains? 

Puzzled the sinister man catches the vocals of another, burgundy lobes swivel as he stalks forward. His body trembling as sore aching muscles moved for the first time in months, he tries to conceal himself in his gift but alas, the feeling his gone. It was once a mental button inserted into his mind, and his heart. He depended heavily on his invisibility it allowed him to sneak up on his victims and mercilessly rid them of this land. Now gen had nothing, it felt as if nothing was ever there, as if his ability ceased to exist.

Now he is just fucking pissed, and extremely confused. Agitated the man treds through the thick layered snow until he reaches a meeting place. Unaware of where he was or what was exactly happening. 

He becomes perplexed by the call for a new leader, of this land he had awoken in. He is hesitant to take advantage of them, something that sounded like something he would do. And something he was going to do now, but his ruby gems meets the eyes of another, the only other that had seemed to arrive. She seemed nervous, and remarkably shy."Hi there." His rugged vocals pipe up, as a genuine roguish smile forms on his velvet lips. "I'm Waylan. Do you know where I am exactly?" He paused. Jesus Christ this women probably thinks he's insane attending a meeting of a land he cannot name. So he found it necessary that an explanation was in order,"You see, I've just awoken from a very long nap. And I awake to find a horn in my skull, my invisibility vanquished, and a leader stepping down of a land I cannot name. I'm sure you understand my confusion." He chuckles honest laced in his words, which is rare even for him.

His attention shifts towards the leader that was stepping down, his head bows forth dipping his new horn towards the man in a matter of respect. He feels changed in a sense, as if some form of warmth managed to reach his stone cold heart rich with something far sinister, as if his own father's spirit lurked within him, injecting his body with a poison drenched with malicious desires. But something managed to maneuver through the maze that was his heart of ice.

WAYLAN

-NORMAL PEOPLE SCARE ME-

OOC:He's back.... but he's unsure. And confused

[Igni]

Love is friendship set on fire ...

She’s there, of course she’s still there. Simply because she has nowhere else to go. And also, Pangea was her home, given to them by their god – which she still naively believed – and right now the only place she felt somewhat safe. Or that was what she told herself, that her god would protect her. And, in the case he could not, then his chosen one – as she called Gunsynd – would be there to do it in His place.

Ever since that day in the meadow she had been skittish, afraid. Even the smallest sounds was enough to startle her and she shied away from every touch even though she needed the comfort. The once so stubborn and headstrong Tundran girl was now only a shadow of her former self. All because of him. Igni had trusted him, she had truly believed that he wouldn’t harm her, ever. And yet he did. The result of that day showed itself in her quickly growing womb. He had forced himself upon her, not only breaking her heart, also scarring her for life.

Since she had avoided everyone as much as she could. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this, a pathetic mess, unworthy of living in this land with their god. She was a shame to his presence. But when he calls, she cannot not go. And thus she joins them, on the outside though, as far away from others as she could be, to listen to what he tells them. From all to expect, Igni had never could’ve guessed this. He was leaving them. What had they done wrong to deserve this? What would become of them?

Her body started shaking, eyes wide and fear clearly visible on her face. If he would no longer protect them, who would? Maybe his chosen one, but since that day in the meadow Igni had avoided Gunsynd too.  He simply resembled Lior too much and the fearful girl was not ready to face him. ”No.. This cann-.. You can’t leave..” Her words are soft, merely a whisper, and it does nothing to hide her fears. This couldn’t be true. What would become of them. It is with tears in her eyes that she steps forward, but never nearing others too close. ”P-please.. Don’t. Don’t leave us. W-whatever we did wrong.. we.. we can make up for it! But please.. Please don’t leave!” This time her voice is louder, but it doesn’t hide her angsty state. She needs him, for her own sanity.

... and fire is the burning passion within.

[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

“Come then, son.”

He is not a god.
No. Of course not.

Had She not pillaged him? Picked him dry, like a vulture does a carcass, because She could? Because his flesh was not made of the same substance – air and earth; supernovas and black holes – as theirs. But skin, taunten over muscle and bone, as vulnerable as the wretches that gather around the god-king like so many lost lambs…

(—but first, he must be found.
And then, he must be caught.)

It would be a lie, to be sure, to say he did not think himself among their pantheon. A lesser thing, perhaps, but what is a mortal to a demi-god? He had been imbued with a complex the day he was laboured over, pushed through that canal of ice and time, and woke up a weaponized man.

(He had been born a lowly thing; he had been a bitter, base creature of the shadows. Had been. Long ago. Those were dead things, now, offerings on an altar of his own device.)

He is a builder, architect, artist. Creator.
This, he has always been.
Reaper, destroyer. Obedient to a cyclical violence.

He follows the summons, remade once more. Those gaudy wings carved from his golden shoulder blades and replaced with the single, boneless one, dragging limp and useless through the dust on his left. On his head, curving back like great crescent moons from his forehead, were the tools of his trade. His hooves, cleaved in two once more, leaving queer tracks in the waste. And writhing inside his skull, like mealworms, is that restless, wanton Fear.
(Be still. In time.)
He had built a boy, who had shown his own eagerness and strength, and at such a young age. Like father, like son, Bruise had brought him gifts. Together, they are pillars in sour earth; idols of Fear, and side-by-side, with an immortal quickness, they come.

(Somewhere, in this festering scar, Sinew incubates more of his bairn and, by god, is he populating Pangea on his own?

The gift-giver, indeed.)

Pollock moves through them without his invisibility, Bruise by his side, past the meek, and the lost. His lip curls at the blue woman, though her pleading incites something feral and excited in his… loins? Mind?
Both, it would seem. Threatening and lustful, both; pitying, above all.

“If I were a god, I wouldn’t suffer a moment longer, either,” he smiles his wry, crocodile smile. There is no desire to hide the self-serving. If the god-king could raze a canyon, he could read a mind. “I introduced myself once, I am Pollock. We did not get time to talk. I so would have loved to,” not, to be fair, a total lie. “I’d venture to say, I have a few behind me that would support my claim,” he looks to Bruise, his mirror, at least in the formidable features. He believes he can count on Sinew.
“I have not done enough. Nobody has. I have played some small part, yet, in bringing... life to this place,” a beautiful irony, “maybe it is my aging, or my children, turning me soft, but I have come to fancy this place. It is... a thing of beauty, so thank you for her. She is a symbol, of so many things I hold dear. And I’d like to keep her. Build her. 

I am not, I admit, a practiced politician. My skill set is... well, a little rougher than that, but then, you built this kingdom on the back of disorder and defiance, so maybe we are perfect. I believe Pangea is unique right now in Beqanna, and is something worth preserving.”

He could accept the weak and the lost, here. 
He could not love them. They could fuck off to their sanctuaries or learn to harden their own bones.

He had.

POLLOCK
the gift giver

[Harmonia]

She curses her pregnancy the way most women do. She'd been pregnant time and time before but never, ever did it hurt her like now. Without her magic (Which the fairy said would be restored, she recalls with some anger!) she is at the hands of mercy of no one. The pain of the child growing in her womb and threatening to pop out at any moment was too much for her to be happy about anything.

Previously she wandered to try to ease the ache and pains, but now she is too far along for this. The foal will be large, it will be strong - and she will abandon it like she does all her children. Probably another unsufferable boy to be left in the adoption den to some poor sop to pick it up.

Little does she know.

She finds the congregation, or rather it finds her. Pregnant like a beached whale, sitting in the most ideal position in Pangea, only for Carnage to call a meeting basically on top of her and discuss his plan to leave again. Good, maybe he could take their child with him. And she watches with the same sort of anger as each horse steps up and offers themselves or their suggestions. To the strange, chuckling fool she snaps, "Pangea, a land Carnage created when those fool fairies destroyed Beqanna." She is bitter because the fairy told her she could restore powers and have her own restored! Instead she is still without magic, but very much with the ability to give it away.

"I nominate Belgrath," she says, her annoyed voice piping up from the back. "And I have a proposition for whomever takes over this shit hole."

HARMONIA

the pied piper

[Carnage]

and lord, I fashion dark gods too;

The girl he met briefly is the first to come, but she offers no names, only her presence. He acknowledges her with a dip of his head, and then is distracted by an unknown, a boy who waltzes in. He’s not surprised – power has a certain stench to it, and can draw like flies. He speaks with Rhae, and the dark god ignores him after that.
Igni, then, begging – she wears upon herself a sort of brokenness he’d enjoy playing with did the stars not call out so.
(Still, he notes her name, her wretched gaze – should she be there when he next returns, he may take her, for a while.)
“Hush,” he tells her – not unkindly, but the word is short, and silences her quick enough.

Then, finally, a name – the demon-like man who followed, who seems suited to this cancerous land.
(In another life, he might have wanted to mentor the boy, but he has learned by now they are all ultimately disappointments.)
Pollock makes his case – a solid enough one. And Carnage’s own blood lives in the boy’s veins, albeit distantly
And then the old magician comes, heavily pregnant, and he nods to her, briefly. She speaks a name - Belgrath - as a nomination.

Time grows short, and Carnage grows bored of being idle.
“It’s yours, Pollock.”
The crown passes, and with the weight of it from his heads, it seems like the stars are all the louder now.
“Pangea,” he says, “remember you were created as a defiance.”
For a moment he shimmers, and constellations burst through the stormcloud gray of his coat – then, he folds within himself and is gone.

Free of cancerous magic, the land is free to grow again – stunted growth, perhaps, and though it may never have the lushness of the other lands, the lands created in deference to their world rather than in defiance, things grow.

c a r n a g e

anyway. carnage goes back to outer space. Pollock is king. in Carnage's absence, things start growing again - the level is up to y'all.
<333