03-22-2023, 03:00 PM
Eternal damnation.
There is nothing but darkness. It cloaks him for days, months, decades – maybe more, he loses count. It swims in his vision until he cannot see anything else around him. It cloaks his mind so that he can hardly remember anything before the veil came down. He cannot move for the stone that enshrines him in a living tomb. He can breathe, but barely, as the unrelenting rock presses against his sides and juts into his chest.
He shouldn’t be alive. Maybe he isn’t.
There is only so long he fights his containment. There are only so many times he can scrape his feet the few inches he is allotted or shove his shoulders forward to push. His skin will not morph into its ghostly consistency, as much as he concentrates; if it were that easy, he would have floated away on his first exhale in this cramped place. Heart-racing panic had long ago been replaced by numb resignation. Why bother when he knows how time will stretch on for him, locked and forgotten in this lifeless womb? Why try when his prison is so perfect?
Only the act of a god can release him, because one had put him here in the first place.
Carnage swims often to the forefront of his mind, unbidden. He does try to stop this, at least, but the dark god is like a dormant disease that strikes at any sign of weakness. And if He had put him here to learn some semblance of a lesson, he is a rotten teacher. Because he feels more justified than ever for all that he has done. He finds deep satisfaction in those memories: sneaking away at His call, finding Gail, finding Gail again. He is more glad than ever that he had bent the rules because they shouldn’t have existed in the first place. If Carnage were to give him a choice to take it all back or spend the rest of his days here, he would spit in his face and lock himself away again. More likely, he is meant to rot here until he is nothing more than a small mark in history. By then, there will nobody left to consider finding him, saving him.
As it turns out, the only thing that does free him is not a god but another worldly upheaval.
Pangea rises again.
His prison goes with it and with some deep fissure in the ground, splits open entirely.
Ramiel blinks in the bright golden light, the first he’s seen in far too long. Rubble is strewn about from the rearranging of the canyon. Big boulders and smaller rocks funnel him in, and he is too exhausted to try to climb up and out – in fact, he’s sure his legs will not hold his weight. With the only bit of strength he has left that he dredges up from desperation, Ramiel becomes a ghost and passes through the pile. On the other side of it, he collapses, solid, but with a grim smile on his lips.
There is nothing but darkness. It cloaks him for days, months, decades – maybe more, he loses count. It swims in his vision until he cannot see anything else around him. It cloaks his mind so that he can hardly remember anything before the veil came down. He cannot move for the stone that enshrines him in a living tomb. He can breathe, but barely, as the unrelenting rock presses against his sides and juts into his chest.
He shouldn’t be alive. Maybe he isn’t.
There is only so long he fights his containment. There are only so many times he can scrape his feet the few inches he is allotted or shove his shoulders forward to push. His skin will not morph into its ghostly consistency, as much as he concentrates; if it were that easy, he would have floated away on his first exhale in this cramped place. Heart-racing panic had long ago been replaced by numb resignation. Why bother when he knows how time will stretch on for him, locked and forgotten in this lifeless womb? Why try when his prison is so perfect?
Only the act of a god can release him, because one had put him here in the first place.
Carnage swims often to the forefront of his mind, unbidden. He does try to stop this, at least, but the dark god is like a dormant disease that strikes at any sign of weakness. And if He had put him here to learn some semblance of a lesson, he is a rotten teacher. Because he feels more justified than ever for all that he has done. He finds deep satisfaction in those memories: sneaking away at His call, finding Gail, finding Gail again. He is more glad than ever that he had bent the rules because they shouldn’t have existed in the first place. If Carnage were to give him a choice to take it all back or spend the rest of his days here, he would spit in his face and lock himself away again. More likely, he is meant to rot here until he is nothing more than a small mark in history. By then, there will nobody left to consider finding him, saving him.
As it turns out, the only thing that does free him is not a god but another worldly upheaval.
Pangea rises again.
His prison goes with it and with some deep fissure in the ground, splits open entirely.
Ramiel blinks in the bright golden light, the first he’s seen in far too long. Rubble is strewn about from the rearranging of the canyon. Big boulders and smaller rocks funnel him in, and he is too exhausted to try to climb up and out – in fact, he’s sure his legs will not hold his weight. With the only bit of strength he has left that he dredges up from desperation, Ramiel becomes a ghost and passes through the pile. On the other side of it, he collapses, solid, but with a grim smile on his lips.
Ramiel