"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
01-25-2016, 06:44 PM (This post was last modified: 01-25-2016, 06:45 PM by The Bellringer.
Edit Reason: Fixing deadline.
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Elve, Esileif and Chrysaeta have all been eliminated.
Elve has been cursed with insatiable hunger. You will be constantly hungry and your stomach will feel hollow no matter how much you eat.
Esileif has been cursed with gluttony. You will have a strong desire to eat all the time, even if you are not hungry.
Chrysaeta has been cursed with pica. You will have a strong urge to eat all matter of non-food items.
This will last for two RL weeks. (However, if you want to make them permanent, you may.)
They stand against him, that tattered group of survivors, each declaring their opposition. Famine stares back at them, terrible features impassive. He can feel the hunger roiling inside of their bellies, bringing him an unearthly satisfaction. But it is more than their hunger he wants, more than their willingness to chew even their own flesh to abate that hunger. He wants their world, the vibrant greens and browns and yellows peeking through increasingly frequent flashes of colliding realms. With each flicker, Beqanna is visible for just a moment longer as the grays of purgatory are slowly being overrun.
He is patient. He will wait.
And then three more disappear, lost to the world outside.
As they stare at each other in shared obstinacy, his brothers range behind him, agitated and furious in equal measure. But when that final explosion sounds in the distance, a slow, satisfied smile begins to curve Famine’s lips.
The end has come.
They will soon be free.
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You knew before you even laid eyes upon him that Famine is different. But now, staring at his still, calm features, it is even more obvious. He does not react like his brethren, his patience disquieting in a way the others are not. He does not even flinch when the final seal splinters apart, instead allowing a smile to light his features.
And you know, without question, that the worst is yet to come.
Famine gives you only one warning, that single word terrifying in its benevolence.
”Run,” he says, his voice so implacably confident you know that he is perfectly serious.
You turn and run. You know, just as you knew so many things before, that your only chance for survival is to outrun the beast that comes. To claim a piece of the seal before he can reach you.
Unlike the others, he is quiet. He utters not a word, not even a single sound, as he comes for you. The only sign of his approach are the muted flashes of blue visible through the trees. His name whispers through your ears just before he reaches you.
Death.
One touch. Just one touch is all it will take.
The only thing that might be able to save you is the seal.
Please respond by Wednesday, January 27th at 6:00pm CST.
Things to Know
Your goal this round is simply to collect the last piece of the seal.
Famine will leave you alone this round, but Conquest, War, and the beasts will still pester you, trying to prevent you from reaching the seal.
Beqanna is coming through in longer bursts now, which means any traits you have are now working fully.
In the end, Death will find you, and his touch will kill you. End your post with your death.
01-25-2016, 09:45 PM (This post was last modified: 01-25-2016, 09:49 PM by Warship.
Edit Reason: html tag issues...again -_-
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i'm on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side of hell
The end was near.
He could feel it in his bone marrow and the depths of his soul. It was both frightening and comforting, to know that this journey was almost over. Three times they had fought; three times they had won. Surely their luck was running in short supply by now. They had beaten Conquest and War and all of their foul beasts. Battered and bruised, yes…but alive. Because of their sacrifice Beqanna was still safe.
To his right and left three mares disappeared, including the mare who had so willingly given herself over to Conquest. He had come to see them all as friends, though he didn’t even know their names. All around them the sky flickered, and more than once he thought he caught a glimpse of the Chamber. He could see mountain ridges and looming pines, and despite the hunger tearing at his belly his heart swelled with hope. Famine stared at them, clearly enjoyed their plight. He could and he would wait them out, wait until their ribs sprang through their skin and their eyes dried in the sockets. Warship himself panted, his stomach drawn up tight to his flanks as his eyes rolled listlessly in their sockets. It took too much effort to focus them and he had little extra effort to spare. He can barely bring himself to close his eyes when the final seal explodes. The shrapnel showers against his face but he does not flinch; the clenching hunger in his stomach had surpassed all else. Sustenance was the only thought in his mind, and even the bizarre thought of horseflesh made his mouth water uncontrollably. Before he could act upon his bizarre and frightening impulse though, he was given an order.
“Run…”
Famines voice did not waiver; the command was very clear. But how could he, Warship, possibly run? He had ran so far, pushed his body far beyond what it was capable of giving. The order was clear though, and who was he to argue? His life had been about following orders and he couldn’t readily toss that habit to the side. Instead he nodded, slowly, his eyes closed. “Run. Yes. Do as he says. Run. Don’t stop.” he said slowly as he allowed his eyes to fall on each of his comrades in turn. He knew most that this was the end for all of them, and he hated that he had no other words to tell them how he felt. However, he hoped that they could hear it in his voice, hear all the unspoken things hiding between his clipped words. They were friends, after all, and he couldn’t bear to tell them goodbye. Goodbye meant the end after all.
He ran. He pushed himself beyond the scope of all that was possible and felt his muscles scream in protest. He had asked so much of his body and now begged it for more. Sweat streamed down his neck and shoulders. The old wounds on his body were soon broken open and the sting of salt to flayed flesh reminded him he was alive. There were all manners of snarls and growls behind him but he ignored them for now, his only goal being the seals and hopefully survival. Another hellhound stepped from the brush and snarled at him but he did not stop; there was no time. The beast snapped at his heels as he flew past but he barely felt the skin break; he had been through so much worse during this ordeal. It was something like running a gauntlet; on either side of his chosen path the beasts lurked, their hisses and growls a chant heralding his death. War and Conquest stood among them and their jeering was by far the worst. Conquest was quiet and smiled eerily, but War had his red eyes trained on him like a lion might view his next meal. With a smile to match Conquest’s he stepped from the legion of beasts and directly into Warships path. Warship slowed to a halt, knowing full well he could not survive another physical battle with the red-eyed beast. “He’ll get you boy…he’ll lay waste to you, and when he does I’ll spit on your still-warm corpse.” War spat, a sickening laugh lilting his voice upwards. Warship glared back at him, allowing all the hate within his body to rise into his eyes and shine towards War. “No. That won’t happen. We will succeed, and you’ll all be sent back to hell where you came from. Fuck you.” His voice was level and smooth despite the anger and fright flowing toxic through his veins. It was a fools attempt to make himself feel better, and it worked to an extent. War and Conquest threw their heads in the air and laughed, and it was their laughter that brought him skidding back into reality. He was on a death march and they were just here to witness the spectacle.
As he left the gauntlet behind, Beqanna showed through clearer than ever before. Flash. The meadow. Flash. The jungle. Flash. The chamber and her foggy mountain peaks. He slowed for a moment to catch his breath, and as the chamber flashed once more he spotted a piece of the seal impaled into a tree. He glanced around before stepping towards it and clamped his teeth onto the stone. Unsurprisingly he did not have to pull, but rather the stone absorbed into his teeth and tongue as he had known it would do. Through it all he had missed the blue glow that hovered in the forest next to him. So keen had he been on this small victory that he had forgotten the rules of purgatory. If it seemed to easy then it probably was.
Death stepped from around the trees and Warship froze, his breath momentarily caught in his throat. For a moment he thought about running but soon gave that up as a fools errand. He had outrun Death once before, he would not be able to do so again. Judging by the smile on Deaths face, he knew it too. “We finally meet, Warship. I’ve been expecting you.” Death said, his voice smooth as silk. Warship knew better than to contradict, so instead he remained silent. His mind was whirring but there was no good solution he could come to. “No one will know your name after this.” mused Death as he walked in slow circles around him like a shark circling his bleeding and flailing prey. “Maybe not. But they’ll remember that a group of us stopped you and your brothers from reaching the real world. They will remember how you all tried and you all failed because of us.” said Warship, fearing tainting his mind and making him reckless. He knew he shouldn’t taunt Death but he couldn’t help himself. Death stopped, sniffing the air like a lion might scent the wounded zebra in the herd. Finally he smiled his sickly smile and his blue eyes flashed dangerously. “That may be so…but you’ll be here with us too. Welcome home, Warship.” And with that Death leapt forward, his muzzle brushing Warships jaw in a soft, almost tender way. He had no time to object or defend himself. There was no pain from Deaths touch, and it felt not dissimilar to a piece of snow touching his jaw. The world disappeared around him and was replaced with a blissful weightlessness that could only be death.
They surround him. Bleeding, shaking, and weak. But still, they stand against Famine. United in their feeble show of defiance. It isn’t much, but it is something, and the sight of it brings just the smallest of smiles to Weaver’s face. They face impossible odds, but that doesn’t stop any one of them from trying.
She’d set out on this quest to save her own skin, despite knowing deep down she would die. In some ways, she still cares only about saving herself, but that alone isn’t enough to drive her on. That isn’t enough to keep her on her feet as her legs shake and her knees buckle. There’s more than just the need to survive holding her up. It’s her allies, their support as they all face Famine. It’s Beqanna, knowing she is one of the few creatures that stand between the apocalypse and her home.
It is so much more than just herself giving her the strength to go on.
She is dizzy, the world flickering too much for her tired mind and battered body to process. The ashy world of purgatory and the vibrant planes of Beqanna bleed together. Fleeting thoughts of trying to disappear into the cracks slip into her mind still. She can’t help it. Can’t help entertaining the notion that maybe she should just give up. Because she doesn’t know how long she can stand. Doesn’t know how long she can do this.
But she can’t give up. That is all she knows. She can’t give up. Even if saving Beqanna means her death. So be it. She would die for that.
The world flickers again, and she stumbles, blinking as she rights herself. When the world comes into focus again, three more are gone. The red and green girl on the ground, the mare that sold herself, and one Weaver hardly saw at all.
There are only six of them left. Six horses standing against Conquest and War and Famine. And one more. She continues to stare at Famine, not flinching as the last seal blows apart in the distance. She’d been waiting for it, after all. Knowing what had to happen. Famine’s face is calm and pleased, an eerie smile creeping on his features.
The smile doesn’t fit the serious warning that follows. Well, it doesn’t fit for her. But for Famine? Of course he’s pleased. Of course he’s going to enjoy sending them all away with a single, powerful word. When a monster tells you to run, you don’t want to know what he’s telling you to run from.
But in some way, she knows what comes for them. He’s been coming all along. She’s known since the beginning, hasn’t she? Just pretended it wasn’t true, just pretended she might live.
She doesn’t hesitate at Famine’s command. She spares only a moment, one quick glance to Warship with an unspoken goodbye in her eyes. And then she does the only thing she can. She runs.
She goes back the way she came, sticking to the forest. She knows her best bet of finding a piece of the seal is in the clearing, but she’s taking the long way around. Trying to avoid the minions. And besides, the forest is the closest thing to home here.
Home. The pine forests of the Chamber. She smiles a bit, thinking of the pines as she weaves through the trees of purgatory. She will never see her pine forest again. Will never feel the comforting thump thump of the heart beneath her feet. But she can pretend.
She can pretend this forest is her forest. It makes the going easier, even though every step is agony. Pain shoots through her cracked rib. Her head pounds with the headache from Conquest, made worse by running. Her stomach gnaws at itself and her legs shake. But she doesn’t think of these things.
She thinks of Mother, stern but loving in her way. She thinks of the ever-burning pine tree. She thinks of Raven, black wings spread, cawing from the sky. And for a moment, she hears him. Turning her head just a bit, she looks for him in the trees. And there is a raven. But it’s not her raven. Like the one she'd already killed, this one is monstrous. The beady red eyes and the glint of metal on its beak give him away.
She doesn’t stop to fight when the raven takes flight. Doesn’t stop when she hears other birds as well. Chirps and caws and all manner of sounds. The birds drift out of the trees, taking their time, knowing their prey will be easy to catch.
Weaver keeps running, even when she feels a talon rip the flesh on her back. Even when she feels beaks pecking, more talons pulling skin from bone.
There are too many to fight. Even if she could win, she doesn’t have time. All she can do is find a piece of the seal before the final horse comes for her. It is the only thing that matters now.
The world flickers again, and she trips on a fallen log, crashing into the ground. The birds descend on her, pecking and clawing, wings flapping all around her. She closes her eyes and struggles back to her feet, taking off again in a limping run.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
For a moment, she thinks she fell through the flicker and back into Beqanna. For a moment, the sound is the heartbeat of the Chamber. For a moment, she’s home. Until the sound grows louder. Until the birds take to the sky, disappearing in the branches above.
It is not the Chamber’s heart that beats the ground. It is War, pummeling toward her. Her promise hadn’t worked. Had he been luring her into a false sense of security before? Or had he been too busy with the others to even worry about her? Does it even matter? One way or another, he comes for her now. His hoof beats become louder, steadier; the beating of war drums she's grown so familiar with.
She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn to face him. The clearing is almost before her now, and she knows there must be a piece of the seal near. She’s close enough to the explosion to find one. She just has to find it. Just has to run a little bit more.
But she is not fast enough to outrun War. Even if she were healthy and whole, she is too small, too mortal, to outrun War. As before, he barrels into her. This time, when he sounds close, she plans for the fall, letting her legs go limp as he hits her. He sends her skidding along the ground. Rocks and branches and dirt tear her black and white coat to shreds.
But nothing breaks. Some bruises, but there’s no resounding crack as another rib gives way. The world flickers again, and she swears she can see the playground, the place she left behind. Maybe it’s just in her head. Maybe it’s a fever dream. At this point, she could have a fever and she’d never know.
She tries to get to her feet again but falls forward, a few feet closer to the playground. The muted forest of purgatory returns and she blinks. Then she sees it. A piece of the seal, just a few feet off.
The flickering world must have slowed War, but she hears the sound of his breath behind her. Coming for her, ready for the kill. In the distance, a flash of yellow. And then another. Conquest coming for her as well. They must know she’s found the seal.
She struggles to her feet, takes a step, and her legs buckle. She doesn’t hit the ground this time, but now the red and yellow flames of War and Conquest are nearly on top of her. Nearly blocking her from the seal. She takes another wobbly step. And then blue. Just in her periphery, almost behind her. War and Conquest look up, both their grins wicked.
The distraction is all she needs. One more step, and her hoof is on the final shard. Like before, it absorbs into her skin. Like before, both her pursuers scream. She spins in time to see War rear, hoof lashing out toward her. She ducks, and he only scrapes her side, though the impact knocks her to the ground.
There might have been magic in the final seal, but she’s too weak to notice any difference now. It isn't enough magic to save her. She can only hope the others get their pieces of the seals as well. Can only hope that will be enough magic to save Beqanna.
Another flash of blue, and his name comes to her as a whisper.
“Death.”
It does not shock her, his name. She gets to her feet. Slow and unsteady, but she manages to stand. When she looks around, War and Conquest have gone, their work done. Weaver turns to find the source of the blue light, lingering just outside the forest.
Whirls of blues and greens and purples cover his body. Celestial, rather than demonic. Even with the hooves that glimmer like knives, even with the glowing eyes. He is beautiful. And he waits for her.
She knows now that there is no more running. She could try, but still he would come. Steady and silent. But he would come. And he would find her. And if she’s going to die, she will not die as a coward.
Her steps falter, but she takes them. One step sends her to her knees. Still, Death does not move, and she gets back to her feet. There’s only a short distance to the clearing, but it takes eternity for her feeble steps to cross it. Her body has gone numb, too weak to think or feel. Too weak to do anything but walk toward that beautiful creature.
Perhaps she welcomes him. Perhaps she knows that she’s lost. Either way, she goes to him. The world flickers again, and this time she sees the Chamber. The trees around her morph from pallid ash trees to misty pines. She smiles now, taking another step forward as if she’ll end up back in the Chamber. Knowing she won’t.
Then Beqanna is gone, and she’s in the clearing. Death comes for her then, his steps slow and sure. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. Not to him. But to her mother, because Weaver failed. To her father, whom she’d never meet. To herself, for no reason other than she is sorry.
But she’d given everything, and she has nothing left to give but this. With the seal inside her, perhaps her death will be enough to save Beqanna. And in that one last hope, she gives her life willingly.
Unlike Conquest, his touch does not sicken. Unlike War, his touch doesn’t rip and break and tear. Unlike Famine, his presence doesn’t starve. No, Death’s touch is soft, almost kind. His breath is warm on her forehead as he reaches out, brushing her skin. Perhaps like her father might have touched her, had she lived long enough to meet him.
She closes her eyes, imagining that Weed stands in front of her for the first time. Her legs crumble beneath her, and she land in the grass. She feels the grass close in around her, swears that her father is wrapping her in a blanket of his making. There is no more pain now, no more hunger. All she knows is blissful, beautiful sleep.
There is nothing worse than this hunger, she thinks, as the others find their way through the forest and into the clearing. She sees Warship first, his eyes initially locking on Weaver’s and then her own before her knees begin to buckle. She sees the big, spotted man go to stand over the flickering filly. Relief fills her when she sees the chestnut boy, too, finally make it through the woods. He’s soon followed by the older woman (who’d fought bravely for the blinking girl) and the last child (who collapses against that same red and green girl). She sees everything happening around her, but distantly and in a green haze. As if she is falling, or if the world itself is falling away from her. As if she is stuck in a funnel, being drawn down, down, down to her death.
Death would be welcome.
She thinks she’s on the brink of it. She thinks she’s becoming fast friends with the grim reaper. He stands next to her, invisible but tangible all the same. One of his bony, thin hands grasps her throat, squeezing off her windpipe from the air she thirsts for. The other hand reaches under her belly (what’s left of it) and punches up, making a concave hollow of the stomach she cannot fill. Just take me, she thinks as her stomach churns with its own acid. But then he seems to move in front of her with nauseating speed. A quick sound like the flapping of a dove’s wings sounds in her ears, in her head. His eyes aren’t black buttons like she thought they might be – they are nuclear-waste green.
And she remembers.
Just have to hold on a little longer. She does, somehow. The forest comes back into focus. Just have to stop the world from ending. Right. No fade to black just yet. The faces of her comrades – her friends – become clear once more. And they are enough to pull her all the way back. Because they have been successful in their plan to surround Famine, and that success implies another – that they’ve all acquired their own pieces of the third seal. It must be what is weakening him, the black and white girl thinks. It must have saved me from Death’s cold hands. She’d been so close. She doesn’t realize she will be even closer, very soon.
When the last seal breaks, it is a muffled, non-threatening sound in the distance. It gives no indication of its worth; it does not tell them that it carries the harbinger of doom and expiration along with it. Famine’s responding grin is as sharp as shattered glass. Titanya can almost smile right alongside the green-eyed behemoth, because it is ludicrous to imagine that they can take on more. As if they aren’t being eaten from the inside out from the monster ahead of them. As if they aren’t hounded by his two brothers, War and Conquest, both circling in the forest nearby. She pictures the creature of sevens stepping on that last seal, zipping into view with that same, somber, one-track focus. Sure, go ahead Lamby – hit us with all you’ve got.
They had been foolish to think they could cut the chaos off at the source. Good-hearted and well-intended, perhaps, but foolish all the same. Titanya looks across the slope of Famine’s back, regaining whatever strength she had left in her reserves when her gaze lands on her comrades. There are less of them than when this all began. In some small corner of her mind, she worries for the ones that have vanished into nothingness (pulled back into Beqanna or flung further down into Hell?). But mostly, she’s worried for the five horses around her and Beqanna as a whole. It’s far too easy to imagine what the four behemoths will do once unleashed on the sunrise lands. She sees the fires spreading, the gore of the immediate war. She sees sway-backed stallions and ribby, starving children. She sees the apocalypse they haven’t stopped – her family torn apart (her brother halved, chewing his own entrails with pink, foaming lips).
Famine’s words cut into her like a lover’s caress. Run.
To stay still is to die.
She runs.
Before, she’d thought she was going to die but hadn’t. War’s teeth had nestled into her back, ripping and pulling and tearing and leaving her muscles like pulled meat. She’d thought he would reach her vertebrae and rend her nerve from its bony cradle with the ease of a bird pulling a worm. One more bite and he might have. She’d said her goodbyes then. She’d pictured her mother’s face and forgiven her. She’d meet her father soon enough and tell him all about the family he’d been taken from. They’d watch over them, together, from high above the clouds. She’d wished her brother a happy and healthy life without her to lean on. It is never fully goodbye with twins, she’d thought – they’d always have a part of each other, even in death.
But now, after all she’s been through since (after surviving so much more than she’d thought herself capable of), she doesn’t want to die. She wants to feel the burning of her legs, her heart, her lungs and soul as long as she can. She wants the joy of a successful fight (of stomping the mutated peacock), the red-flash of anger in the midst of it (when survival is all that matters, when whether you live or die is still in question and wholly dependent upon your next move). She wants to see the colors of the real world again (the autumnal spread of the great forests, the iridescent, shifting hues of the waterfalls), more than just the flashes of Beqanna overhead. She wants the others to survive almost as much as she wants herself to. What good have they really done if they aren’t around to see it? What use is saving the entire world when they are merely ash and dust on its surface? So Titanya runs like the devil is after her, runs to life and to save her own skin.
But she is not the only one.
Many of them take off into the forest towards the clearing. Warship is the first but she loses sight of him quickly in the dense underbrush. The other black and white girl, Weaver, is the next to go. Titanya doesn’t follow either of them. If they all split up like before, maybe a few of them will make it. If most of the fragments are recovered, maybe they will still save the world. Even if the plains of hell stand between them and the clearing. Even if the king of hell – the last freed behemoth – waits for them on the other side, they still have a chance. And they have to take it. Branches tear against her already tattered sides, reopening wounds that had begun healing with the latest piece of seal. Each fresh pain is felt less than the one before it. Her entire body aches and creaks in a way no body should, especially one so young. She wears a sheet of blood and hurt; she thinks nothing can possibly add more to her ensemble now.
She is slow, though. Her left leg shudders each time she is forced to move it, making her pace a largely three-legged attempt. The injury costs her, because all too soon, she hears hooves obliterating the leaves and fallen twigs behind her. They are too loud to be one of her comrades (and secretly, she’s glad they haven’t followed her – two horses of six would be a target impossible for the behemoths to ignore). Instead, she has drawn the attention of one of them. War, Conquest, or Famine? She wonders how she would like to die: injury, illness, or the total starvation of her body and mind?
Be mine, the whisper says in her head, and she knows. Bow, submit, surrender to me.
“No,” she whispers, but she slows her hobbling effort of a trot. The world flickers like static around them. The forest lights up and breaks apart; she hears a roaring and wonders if it is the Falls just beyond or the sound of her own blood whooshing in her ears. The fractured view remains, far longer than any time before. It draws both of their attentions away: Conquest’s towards Beqanna and Titanya’s towards Conquest. She sees the hunger in his yellow-sulfur gaze, the promise of plagues and viruses eating up all the plants and animals just behind his eyes. She turns to run on, but the worlds close into one. And with a snap, he is on her again.
Conquest leaps against her, his chest bumping into her flank and shoving her off balance. She starts to fall (her left hindleg screaming in protest) but miraculously recovers before she hits the dirt. Let’s try this again, shall we? And while she is pulling herself upright again, her muscles straining for all they are worth, he latches onto her shoulder with his teeth. The fever sets in immediately, but not to the degree it reached before. He is weaker – they all are, monster and equine both – and he does not sicken her like before. But she is still woozy enough for the forest to spin around her. Still smart enough, too, to make it work to her advantage. Titanya sinks down the rest of the way to the ground, her eyes fluttering and unfocused. She keeps the white-hot anger in check, somehow, tamping it down long enough for her idea to work. Conquest peers at her with the intensity of a wolf to an injured elk (she half thinks he’ll finish the job here and now). But his impatience wins out quickly, and he leaves her to die in the woods. There are other survivors to finish off.
The sabino smirks when his earth-shaking movement moves far enough away from her. She rises to her feet, shakily, and glowers at the place Conquest disappeared into the trees. Take that, brawny asshole. But his attack had not been without consequence. Titanya makes it through to where the trees begin to thin out at the conclusion of purgatory’s forest, but it takes her an excruciatingly long time. Long enough, it seems, to leave her the last to arrive. There is a blank stillness in the air (more than ever before) that makes her sound as loud as one of the monstrous horses. There is only an injured, weasel-like beat slow-crawling towards her in the tall grass just beyond. Even from here, she sees that he will not make it in time – his back legs are flattened and drag in the grey wheat behind him. There is a piece of a seal (the last? she shakes her head at the thought of being the only one left) buried in a sandy rise nearby. She stumbles over to it, reaching down to grasp it between her teeth. The young mare misses on the first try, her depth perception altered by Conquest’s lessened curse.
“Shit.” Her voice seems to echo in the clearing and fear works like a needle into her heart. She pauses, and sure enough, a loud thundering starts behind her. Who will it be this time? But she doesn’t waste any more time. Titanya reaches down and manages to latch onto the fragment. It absorbs into her with an iciness that soothes her heated body. It feels like forever, like an eternal, unescapable cold. Like death. She shudders and turns. Because just then, she wonders if it is from the seal at all. Just then, Death is inside of and in front of her all at once.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to.
She knows what he is thinking as he watches her, impassively. I know your father, his eyes seem to say. I know he died in agonizing pain. He saw your mother just before he choked on his own blood, just before his heart was ripped out and eaten by a wolf-horse. He knows all of the skeletons in her family. He tells her all about their suffering without uttering a word. He promises her some of her own - eternal, unescapable - unless she submits. And dies. Let me have the world. Let Beqanna end in hellfire. It will be so easy to bow. Come, let me show you.
He doesn’t say anything.
His radioactive-blue eyes say everything.
Famine had told her to run, so she stands instead. It makes it easy for him to reach her standing figure (so easy). He rears up before she can react. His hooves flash into the silver, silent air before she can move to defend herself. She feels the promise of the four seals within her. They are the latticework holding her broken body together, along with the fire that has never left her. Because she will not run – she will not give him the satisfaction. She will die so the world can live. She will protect whatever parts of the seals she can. Maybe someday, long after their world is dust and gleaming bones, the pieces will be reunited. Maybe someone braver and stronger will make it all right again. Maybe her death will not be in vain. Titanya forces her eyes to remain open as his hooves fall against her forehead.
Nine of them are before famine, a face-off they cannot hope to win. Each moment weakens them, the insatiable desire growing. Even if they could somehow beat Famine, and end their hunger, War and Conquest stand ready to devastate those that remain. But too much binds them to their former world – they care too much – and they will not lay down and die. Still, the boy flinches when three more vanish from amongst the group. He is quite sure that whatever comes will be a mercy for the green-and-red girl, and the golden roan, who cannot even rise from the ground; and he finds it hard to mourn the loss of the girl who gave herself to Conquest (even if she does seem to have changed her mind) – but nine are now six, and six feels like none at all in the face of this challenge.
For the first time the explosion does not make him flinch (or throw him across the ground). It’s distant, muffled, and almost normal by now. But the smile on Famine’s face makes Rhonen shiver, sidling uneasily back and forth between his companions. Only Famine’s voice breaks the uneasy silence, making the coppery colored boy go very still, and glance at his companions. There is no uncertainty in Famine’s voice, and Rhonen doesn’t doubt his sincerity, but they have come this far together, and together they should go the next step. But Warship seconds the command, a voice the boy trusts, and so he turns and runs with them.
For a brief moment, they have the lead. Bruised and broken though they may be, War and Conquest were behind Famine, and their minions are temporarily distracted. So he runs, remembering that he had come through the woods from the seals. Returning through the woods is his best chance to find a piece of the final seal – though he wonders what will happen then. Will he be trapped here, forever, to contain the four? It would be, a part of the back of his mind suggests, quite the parallel if four of them remained after the final culling. Once each to trap the four; only two more would escape this place (wherever they have gone).
But oh, what if they can win? It is this desire, this strongest of feelings (hope) that drives him forward, despite the pain in every step. Despite the boils where Conquest had touched him, despite the blood flowing across his haunches where the Mongoose’s teeth had pierced and torn. Despite, even, the still-gnawing hunger. Hope that he might still be returned to Aubri, to Nairne, to his parents. To hear the watery din of the Falls, or the whistle of the wind across the Deserts. To explore the strange places in Beqanna he’s never been.
This distraction nearly costs him that chance. Running headlong with no thought but to return to the clearing and the pieces of seal, Rhonen stumbles into a giant spider’s web; it grabs at his limbs, his short coat, and immediately he begins to thrash. Struggling only tangles him further, the vine-thick spider webs wrapping around his flailing limbs. Only the faint, strange tremble of something else moving across the web makes him still, breathing hard but unable to move to look. And then it is there, in the corner of his vision; a spider like he has never seen, nearly half his own size, and with a tail like the Desert’s scorpions, that rattles faintly like a snake when it moves.
He begins to struggle again, uselessly, making no progress as the spider creeps towards him. Not a moment too soon, a force hits him and he is flung from the web, falling to the ground as vicious needle-like teeth tear into his shoulder, his neck. Ah – the weasel-like creature’s mate, then. Despite the intense pain, Rhonen smiles. This foe he has fought already. Lashing out with all four legs he sends it sprawling to the ground and leaps to his feet, whirls, and brings his forelegs down on its skull with a crunch that makes his stomach turn. He doesn’t take the time to think about it – simply turns again and runs.
Runs and runs, each step shorter and each breath more labored. It is in this condition that he stumbles across War again, but the trees are dense here. War lands only a single blow on the top of Rhonen’s haunches before the much smaller boy ducks underneath a branch, some vines, into a tight space and he is free of War, and amidst the flashes of the real world shining through he can make out the natural light of the clearing. And – there! Satisfaction fills him as he steps on his final piece of seal, and it settles with a heavy weight into his chest beside the others. Looking towards the clearing he begins to move again, limping forward, dizzy from blood loss and pain and hunger. The flashes have taken on a distinct blue tinge, he notices dreamily, and it’s almost pretty. Pretty like the sky, like the waterfall, like his mother’s favorite color change.
‘Death.’ the voice brings him to a shivering halt. Perhaps he was the only one who had not guessed the final of the four, but now a dread fills him. He cannot run any longer – he is too weak to run anywhere, his legs nearly trembling from the exhaustion. He is dizzy (from hunger, from blood loss, at this point he doesn’t even know) and heart-sick and tired. The last of the four is stalking him, but he doesn’t have the energy to turn and look though the footfalls closely mirror his own. Still, the thought of what waits in the before is enough to send him lunging forward, stumbling towards the clearing until he trips and falls, and gets back up only to take a few steps and fall again. This time Death steps forward swiftly, and presses it’s muzzle to his unwounded shoulder, the touch dry and cool. It says nothing, perhaps knowing he will not listen, but the coolness of the touch spreads through him and he collapses from his knees to his side, eyes meeting Death’s before sliding closed.
It is the thought of all of the pleasant memories that shade of blue conjures that usher him into whatever comes next.
Blind and whistling just around the corner
And there's a wind that is whispering something
Strong as hell but not hickory rooted
Do not go gentle into that good night, it was once said, and there was nothing gentle about this.
Three more disappear, as if they never existed. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe this is all a dream, and somewhere Hickory lays feverish and dying, raving words spewing from her lips. She can hope.
(The pain feels so real, though.)
For a moment she sees the lamb, or thinks she does, and again the air splinters with the seal. The last one.
There are so few of them left, but the few who remain – this nameless brethren – stand against them, the wicked dying brothers, they stand with seals in their veins and a glint of defiance in their eyes.
There are so few of them.
The world flickers again, and for a moment she gets a real glimpse of the world she came from. She isn’t sure if she misses it. She never felt much, in that world, instead drifting through life with a legacy wearing heavy on her bones, a destiny gone unfilled.
Here she is broken, she is bloodied and will more than likely die, but she feels things – feels rage and fury and fear and a sort of hysterical joy, even, the righteous glee of doing something, acting rather than standing idly by.
Famine remains still, watching them. His gaze is more than predatory, it is apocalyptic, and the unease sits heavy in her gut. The smile that curls across his wretched lips is the vilest thing she’s ever seen. Run, he says, and she obeys before he even finishes the word.
Someone – something – else is coming, somehow worse than the rest, their brother, their king, their god.
Their end game.
She runs and the others run with her. Conquest runs, too, and War, and all the gibbering beasts they brought with them. She hears the hellish chorus of them – their heavy chuffing breaths, and below that, a kind of laughter.
There are things at her heels, things that might have once been the earth’s creatures but were since sickened and mutated by the world.
She wonders if she would become like them, if she’d lived here long enough. If her skin would have twisted into metal, if her body would have twisted, enlarged until she was only a semblance of her earthly self.
She wonders what it would feel like, to transform.
Something nips at her heel, a creature that might have once been a jungle cat – a panther, perhaps – but is now twisted. It has too many eyes, and wears armor that appears to have cut into its skin. There are sores on its body, too, and one of its several eyes dangles out on a stalk, gruesome.
She tries to dig in, to run faster, but her lungs are already burning with exertion and pain, her fractured ribs worsening, so when the cat thing bites again she stumbles, almost falls to her knees.
War and Conquest catch up, surround her, as do the creatures. She braces herself, forces her eyes open.
(do not go gentle into that good night)
She will face them.
(rage, rage against the dying of the light)
She will not win, but she will face them.
But the attack doesn’t come. They stalk around her, almost playfully, and she realizes she is being kept, a prize to offer to something so much grander. But she can’t be given, not yet, not when there is a seal that still sings her name.
She scans the ground frantically, but there is nothing but dust, churning up by their eager hooves.
They’re murmuring something, a conversation she can’t quite here – an argument, perhaps – and she takes this moment of distraction. She inhales, deeply, like it’s the last time she might ever take in air.
She barrels through the circled creatures, one last stand, and hones every part of her blood to listen for the seal, for it to holler her home. There is something, so faint it might be imagined, so she runs in that direction, and already the creatures are after her, but there --
A piece of the seal glints in the dust.
She doesn’t take this one into her mouth – there’s no time – merely places a hoof over it, but it melts into her all the same and she feels a moment of strength, its power flooding her veins.
The world flickers. She sees lush jungles, frozen tundras, the meadow sprawling open. She sees two horses engaged in idle chatter, and the normalcy of it feels like a bullet. They don’t know, she thinks, they don’t know how thin the world really is.
Conquest and War do not come. Nor do the creatures. Instead, he comes – Death, a creature of smoke and blazing greens and blues. He is calm – calmer than Famine, even.
Death has all the time in the world, after all.
You should know this – Hickory is not supposed to die.
None of them are supposed to, of course. But Hickory comes with a legacy stricken inside of her, she is a woman made of a finite bloodline – she is the only one, the offspring of only ones. She carries in her a strange line, a unique one. Each individual in the line has one child, only one.
And she is the last.
And the last now meets Death, and she is childless, and somewhere perhaps her mother and father and all those before her are weeping as the last of their line stands in the dust, bleeding and broken.
Death knows this – of course he knows, because Death is who met her mother and father all those years ago – and a soft smile touches his face. It is not malicious, not like Conquest and War.
Rather, it is the feeling of something inevitable – an unstoppable force.
(The darkness is like a song.)
The world flickers and Beqanna’s sun shrines through. She knows she should say goodbye. But there is so little to say goodbye to. There is no family, (the last, the last)
no friends.
Instead of goodbye, she thinks I’m sorry.
Sorry to her bloodline for not fulfilling her destiny.
Sorry to Beqanna for not stopping this – because though she has the seal, they are all still here, and the world still flickers.
“Hickory,” he says. He knows her name. Of course he knows her name.
Death knows all their names, in the end.
She tells him what she told all the rest.
“You can’t,” she says.
It feels like a lie. Because he can. Of all of them, he can.
She moves to run. Because she cannot go gentle into that good night. Because, god bless her, she is still frightened as she (quite literally) faces death. (rage, rage)
She doesn’t get far.
Death moves quick as a snake when he must, and his muzzle touches her withers. Just barely, but it is enough.
She is gone before her body hits the ground.
The darkness that takes over is not like a song, but rather, like nothing at all.
The shattering of the seal is a dull explosion in the distance, but there is no mistaking the glee on Famine's face at its demise. The girl I had tried to shelter disappears beneath me, and I hope that wherever she is that she is safe. Something even more terrible is coming, something that flashes through the trees with an eerie blue glow.
We all heed the warning despite its source, turning to flee towards the shattered seal (which is also towards the coming terror). I follow behind the chestnut colt, and my longer strides are hampered enough by my injuries that we keep nearly the same pace. I fall behind at the sound of gnashing teeth, only to stumble and fall as something shoves my hubs end to the side. I squeal, the pain of sharp twigs pressing into my torn shoulder is excruciating.
When I rise, Conquest's yellow eyes are too close, and my left haunch where he has shoved against me is covered in blisters. The pain should be excruciating, but the real world flashes around me as I struggle to my feet, and I know its nearness weakens the demon's power. I get up and run again, heading towards the meadow where the seal had shattered. I do not even know I have found a bit of it until I feel the weight of it settle in my chest - I must have stepped on it. Ahead of me I see the flickering blue light that surrounds a creature more terrible than the others, and a few paces ahead of it, I see Rhonen.
I should turn, run in the opposite direction, gather more bits of the seal to trap the demons in this Purgatory.
Instead I charge ahead, and the last thing I see before the darkness takes me is the surprise in Death's eyes as I plow my shoulder into his in a final attempt to give Rhonen more time.
ooc: so this was nice and long and pretty, but then my borrowed laptop crashed and I'm writing this on my phone which has 4% power :/
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