jamie
02-25-2021, 03:26 PM
Jamie
He sees her body spit lightning, he tastes her rage, the white, violent thrill of it.
Where had he been while his home had burned? Had he been away on the battlefield, fighting to protect it in other ways? It burns him now just to think it, though he cannot tell if he is burning or if she is. He cannot tell if there is any difference.
He studies her a long moment, though he does not recognize the witch in her memory. He does not know where she came from or what made her think she could turn Pangea into something it was not. He exhales a rattling breath and shakes his head.
He is glad that she carved out her voice again, certainly. It is a voice deserving of being heard, though she has the power to make herself heard regardless, he knows.
A thought occurs to him then, though he does not know where it comes from, only where it takes root. Somewhere near his brainstem and then in the great cavern of his chest. An idea that expands with a startling ferocity until he is consumed by it.
“Beyza,” he says, the name a wheezing rasp. Eerie. So much like the fog that twists around their legs. He casts a curious glance into the darkness that surrounds them. “We are powerful separately,” he muses, (though, currently, she is far more powerful than he is), “but I think there could be a way for us to combine our power.”
Where had the idea come from?
The glorious thing that had crawled out of her womb and sprung forth to wreak havoc on the earth?
“Children,” he sighs, quite plainly, “daughters.”
He tilts his peculiar head then, smiles his shark-tooth smile. “Fates.”
Where had he been while his home had burned? Had he been away on the battlefield, fighting to protect it in other ways? It burns him now just to think it, though he cannot tell if he is burning or if she is. He cannot tell if there is any difference.
He studies her a long moment, though he does not recognize the witch in her memory. He does not know where she came from or what made her think she could turn Pangea into something it was not. He exhales a rattling breath and shakes his head.
He is glad that she carved out her voice again, certainly. It is a voice deserving of being heard, though she has the power to make herself heard regardless, he knows.
A thought occurs to him then, though he does not know where it comes from, only where it takes root. Somewhere near his brainstem and then in the great cavern of his chest. An idea that expands with a startling ferocity until he is consumed by it.
“Beyza,” he says, the name a wheezing rasp. Eerie. So much like the fog that twists around their legs. He casts a curious glance into the darkness that surrounds them. “We are powerful separately,” he muses, (though, currently, she is far more powerful than he is), “but I think there could be a way for us to combine our power.”
Where had the idea come from?
The glorious thing that had crawled out of her womb and sprung forth to wreak havoc on the earth?
“Children,” he sighs, quite plainly, “daughters.”
He tilts his peculiar head then, smiles his shark-tooth smile. “Fates.”
( FROM THE DESTRUCTION, OUT OF THE FLAME
YOU NEED A VILLAIN, GIVE ME A NAME )
YOU NEED A VILLAIN, GIVE ME A NAME )
@[Beyza]