01-19-2017, 11:45 AM
I'm not sure where we can go from here sans-Deimos with the whole figuring out what he's trying to do with Kilter. But if you want to play it as they wake up to a new day and find something else to do while waiting for Deimos we can do that too - I'm game for anything.
is Angel had a name, and it rang beautifully through the air. Raeg’n, like a bright and burning fire, like the soft wisps of satin – Raeg’n. And so Death and his Angel both had earthly names; however of the heavens and hell they may be, they were still grounded to Beqanna. Kilter smiled, repeating the Angel’s name quietly to himself - Raeg’n.
There were too many gaping holes in it all – Death finding Kilter steps away from his doorstep, Death cajoling him into life, his Angel appearing like a desert mirage. None of it made any sense. Death was too powerful, all powerful in fact – why would he want Kilter, a half dead thing without any royal title, without any home, and without any allies. It was just Kilter and his Angel – and Death could not have known that the Angel, Raeg’n, would have come to save him. It was too perplexing indeed. Was Kilter Death’s prisoner now? Death had not given anything to him, so Kilter did not think he owed something in exchange, right? And yet he had traveled to Pangea, for reasons unknown to himself.
Kilter is quiet, brooding over the murky points of the past day – when his Angel speaks. He is not alone. Her breath is warm on his body as the setting sun dips temperatures into the chilly spring night; it is a cocoon around him, a comfort, something he had not felt since birth. Her tone is solid, reassuring, a promise that he would not face Death alone.
But even the Angel admits she does not know his plan – that she is as confused as he is. Death’s game was a disconcerting one, it seemed, with no real answers, and no way to find out. It was simply time that would give them the end game, time and the appearance of Death. When would he come to them? When would he answer their riddled thoughts of what would happen next?
Kilter sighed deeply, his jagged ribs rising and falling – contentment for the first time since winter began. He leans his silver body into the Angel’s blue one, and together they look like a starry night sky. “Thank you, my Angel.. My Raeg’n.” Her words wash over him, giving him the slightest sliver of hope that his life was about to change – that he would no longer be the castoff son of Eight and Topsail, the child without a gift, the prince who only roamed with the wolves. He had a friend, not just Ruan who he communicated with in the wolven way of silence, but his very own Angel.
His eyes grew heavy, his body tired from the last few months of flirting with death and disaster. And for the first time in what seemed like forever, he fell into a deep and restful sleep.
k i l t e r
eight and topsail’s timid telekinetic
Kilte
R
the feelin' like you're smilin' even brighter when the weather's shit
H
is Angel had a name, and it rang beautifully through the air. Raeg’n, like a bright and burning fire, like the soft wisps of satin – Raeg’n. And so Death and his Angel both had earthly names; however of the heavens and hell they may be, they were still grounded to Beqanna. Kilter smiled, repeating the Angel’s name quietly to himself - Raeg’n.
There were too many gaping holes in it all – Death finding Kilter steps away from his doorstep, Death cajoling him into life, his Angel appearing like a desert mirage. None of it made any sense. Death was too powerful, all powerful in fact – why would he want Kilter, a half dead thing without any royal title, without any home, and without any allies. It was just Kilter and his Angel – and Death could not have known that the Angel, Raeg’n, would have come to save him. It was too perplexing indeed. Was Kilter Death’s prisoner now? Death had not given anything to him, so Kilter did not think he owed something in exchange, right? And yet he had traveled to Pangea, for reasons unknown to himself.
Kilter is quiet, brooding over the murky points of the past day – when his Angel speaks. He is not alone. Her breath is warm on his body as the setting sun dips temperatures into the chilly spring night; it is a cocoon around him, a comfort, something he had not felt since birth. Her tone is solid, reassuring, a promise that he would not face Death alone.
But even the Angel admits she does not know his plan – that she is as confused as he is. Death’s game was a disconcerting one, it seemed, with no real answers, and no way to find out. It was simply time that would give them the end game, time and the appearance of Death. When would he come to them? When would he answer their riddled thoughts of what would happen next?
Kilter sighed deeply, his jagged ribs rising and falling – contentment for the first time since winter began. He leans his silver body into the Angel’s blue one, and together they look like a starry night sky. “Thank you, my Angel.. My Raeg’n.” Her words wash over him, giving him the slightest sliver of hope that his life was about to change – that he would no longer be the castoff son of Eight and Topsail, the child without a gift, the prince who only roamed with the wolves. He had a friend, not just Ruan who he communicated with in the wolven way of silence, but his very own Angel.
His eyes grew heavy, his body tired from the last few months of flirting with death and disaster. And for the first time in what seemed like forever, he fell into a deep and restful sleep.
eight and topsail’s timid telekinetic