CROWNS HAVE THEIR COMPASS-LENGTH OF DAYS THEIR DATE-
TRIUMPHS THEIR TOMB-FELICITY, HER FATE-
Kisamoa had made death. He’d sharpened bones upon blades, carried sepulchers across the wake, enscribed, etched, sketched tombs for his making. Mauna had watched as each of their gods sacrificed themselves, one by one by one, until they were swallowed and consumed by a single, solitary false paragon’s power, by the crowning of treachery, deceit, and dominion. He’d witnessed his mother and her siblings pulled into the reaches, striving to overcome, striving to protect, striving to reach in and pluck him apart – until they too, were just as devoured as the rest. There’d been the other families, brethren, kin, and citizens, screaming for their lives, plunging for portals, for means of escape; and he’d been pushed in amongst them, rescued and liberated, only to fall –
He sucked in a breath, let the chill sink into his veins, pour out his hooves, in the abrupt movement. She didn’t ask him anything more on it, and he went no further.
Wouldn’t.
The pause she took when deciphering her own name made him curious; but the beast was too polite, and she hadn’t done anything rude to him, so he let it go. Callings carried weight sometimes, altered and changed, morphed and warped, scalded and deprived. His mother had been The Mountain That Knows – but never enough to ensure her own livelihood. There’d been scores of them, lacquered and layered like legends, and all of them coming to the same fate.
He lived and breathed in his – to be those peaks and summits, to be the earth and stone, to fly into the void.
Sera; and she’d be right, it bore no measures to him. Not to a youth who’d existed on edges and fringes, hoping for the boundaries to come meet him. A nod was granted and given, and then a brow raised at her insinuations.
What he’d always been searching for.
He stared straight ahead immediately after, as if the surroundings would guide him. “Helovia. I was born in the Dragon’s Throat.” He didn’t allow the hope in his soul to rise up, to brew, to quell, but gods he could feel it stirring, just like every other time. Just like every other moment he thought he recognized a friend, a land, a home.
@Seraphina
@tag | speaks
TRIUMPHS THEIR TOMB-FELICITY, HER FATE-
Kisamoa had made death. He’d sharpened bones upon blades, carried sepulchers across the wake, enscribed, etched, sketched tombs for his making. Mauna had watched as each of their gods sacrificed themselves, one by one by one, until they were swallowed and consumed by a single, solitary false paragon’s power, by the crowning of treachery, deceit, and dominion. He’d witnessed his mother and her siblings pulled into the reaches, striving to overcome, striving to protect, striving to reach in and pluck him apart – until they too, were just as devoured as the rest. There’d been the other families, brethren, kin, and citizens, screaming for their lives, plunging for portals, for means of escape; and he’d been pushed in amongst them, rescued and liberated, only to fall – He sucked in a breath, let the chill sink into his veins, pour out his hooves, in the abrupt movement. She didn’t ask him anything more on it, and he went no further.
Wouldn’t.
The pause she took when deciphering her own name made him curious; but the beast was too polite, and she hadn’t done anything rude to him, so he let it go. Callings carried weight sometimes, altered and changed, morphed and warped, scalded and deprived. His mother had been The Mountain That Knows – but never enough to ensure her own livelihood. There’d been scores of them, lacquered and layered like legends, and all of them coming to the same fate.
He lived and breathed in his – to be those peaks and summits, to be the earth and stone, to fly into the void.
Sera; and she’d be right, it bore no measures to him. Not to a youth who’d existed on edges and fringes, hoping for the boundaries to come meet him. A nod was granted and given, and then a brow raised at her insinuations.
What he’d always been searching for.
He stared straight ahead immediately after, as if the surroundings would guide him. “Helovia. I was born in the Dragon’s Throat.” He didn’t allow the hope in his soul to rise up, to brew, to quell, but gods he could feel it stirring, just like every other time. Just like every other moment he thought he recognized a friend, a land, a home.
@
OF NOUGHT BUT EARTH CAN EARTH MAKE US PARTAKER,
BUT KNOWLEDGE MAKES A KING MOST LIKE HIS MAKER.
BUT KNOWLEDGE MAKES A KING MOST LIKE HIS MAKER.
