what has fallen may rise again; ROUND I

[Carnage]

and lord, I fashion dark gods too;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust, the poem goes.
It’s not a handful of dust that he has, but it’s close. A mouthful of dirt, spat at his hooves by his own disgraceful son.
The what didn’t matter. The where did.
The dirt was from Pangea, his fallen kingdom, a place created from cancerous magic, a defiance to the mountain, to Beqanna herself. Vomited forth by the dark god, flaunted - only to crumble back to the sea when he turned his back, left the place for a day or a year or a decade.
He’d meant to raise it, when he returned, but when he touched it, sickness threatened. He had been ill, when Pangea was born - not stripped of his magic, as others had been, but sickened. Some of the sickness had remained, threaded like veins through the fallen kingdom.
He could have powered through it, swallowed the bile, raised it through the pain.
But why? He does not like the feeling, the clawing threat of weakness that touched when he tried to beckon forth his drowned land.
There’s no reason he needs to go it alone. None at all.

So he doesn’t. He sends his son first, to bring something small, a piece of Pangea’s earth. Too small to sicken him.
(Him being Carnage. He can’t speak for the effects it might have on his son. That’s not his problem.)
The dirt tethers him. A touchstone to his land. It’s a thin, precarious thread, but he doesn’t need much.
With his mind, he picks up the dirt, shapes it into a handful. It floats there, for a moment. It looks completely unremarkable, but their dark god can feel the way it thrums. An impossible, drowned kingdom. A sick kingdom.
His kingdom.
The handful of earth separated into pieces, flying off in a dozen different directions. Small and unremarkable.  

They find marks. Horses, chosen at random. The dirt burrows into their skin, like a living thing, parasitic. Once inside, it blooms. Spreads.
Like a flower. Like a sickness.
It changes their lungs, makes the air hard to breathe. It pulls them to the water. To the shore where Pangea once lay. The motherland.
He is waiting, at the shore.
“You’ve all been chosen,” he says. He does not let them into the water, not yet. He lets them choke.
“My kingdom is there--” he looks out to the ocean, which has taken on a glassy calm, “and you are all to go to it. I have a job for you there.”
He closes his eyes. He can feel the pieces of Pangea - so small, so potent - thrumming inside them.
He beckons forth something else - earth from the top of the mountain. Gravel, really. Pieces from the top of the world. The pinnacle of Beqanna’s magic. He pierces their skin with these, too. Side by side. Touchstones.
Tethers between the worlds. He’ll need those, later.
“Go on, then. Find Pangea. I’ll send further instructions once you’re there.”
He steps aside. Lets them break for the water, where they’ll be able to breathe. For a while, at least.

NOTES;
• Describe your horse being pierced by the Pangea remnant, listening to Carnage (and being pierced by the mountain remnant), then going into the water to find Pangea. Feel free to encounter underwater obstacles. End the post with them finding Pangea.
• Your horse temporarily has the ability to breathe underwater and is resistant to pressure, alongside whatever traits they regularly have
• No limit on entries, but one entry per player
• This is a Carnage quest, so defects may very likely occur.
• Entries are due by 11:59 AM CST/noon Saturday, September 8th

c a r n a g e

[sochi]

there is a swelling storm and I'm caught up in the middle of it all
and it takes control of the person that I thought I was

It is quiet when the cancerous soil finds her.

It is quiet and she is alone, standing amongst the darkness of the forest with the shadows stretching out along her equine back, turning the richness of her coat even darker wherever they touch.

It is quiet and she is alone and she doesn’t know it’s happening until it is piercing her skin.

In an instant, she goes from restful (silver eyes half closed, a hum in her throat) to alive with fury. Her head tips back and the howl that escapes her is dark and stained with surprise, the noise animalistic as she whips her head around to find the source of it. She shifts without thinking, her body shedding the form of prey to cling to armor of predator, but even the shift—usually so quick, so graceful—is a stuttered thing.

Her limbs do not conform the way that they should.

Her body does not react as it should.

It takes longer for her to rise as the tiger, and when she does, she collapses to the ground, hacking against air that no longer feels right, her lungs alien in her chest. She gasps, swallowing air like inhaling water, and stumbles forward, some invisible hook sunk into her belly, drawing her toward whatever fate awaits her.  She wants to run, but she cannot, and so she crawls. She chokes, she trembles, but she moves.

There is no water—not enough—on the journey, but whatever puddle she can find, she sticks her face into, breathing in the muddy water deep. When she finally reaches the shore, her striped face is muddied and her eyes are bloodshot and her body is exhausted. She wants to collapse, but she doesn’t, her silver eyes instead piercing the grey stallion with as much fight as she can muster, hate burning her gaze.

She coughs again and froth bubbles at the corner of her mouth.

At his demand, she snarls, feline lips lifting to show the muddy teeth beneath, but she nods.

Because how can she refuse the demand of a god when it branches through her very veins?

She snarls even louder when her skin is pierced again, the gravel finding root inside of her, the blood thick and syrupy as it wells to the surface and trickles down amongst the thick fur of her winter coat. It is only then that he releases them, and she does not bother to hide the loathing in her eyes, as she turns from him to face the gloss of the water. She stumbles forward, doing her best to not show the desperation in the movement, to not show the weakness in her, and she splashes into the ocean, the saltwater rising.

The sand gives way, the beach bleeds away beneath her, and at first she sinks like a stone.

Her tiger body is lax, the currents sweeping over her, bubbles forming.

Until—

Until she startles awake, mouth opening against every instinct as the oxygen finally finds its way to her frantic mind. It is enough to buoy her, enough to let strength once again flood through her, and although there is a piece of her that still burns with her hate for the dark god who so callously herded them to the water to do his bidding, there is a piece of her that is stronger: her need to survive.

So, for now, she sheds the hate as deadweight and turns her calculating mind to the task at hand.

Find Pangea.

He had told her to find Pangea.

She is still in her tigress form, and she is grateful for it. Grateful for the body that is not made for the ocean but better adapted for swimming, the heavy paws beginning to churn, pulling her forward as she kicks out and dives down. She is both weightless and impossibly heavy, heavy enough that she continues to sink down, to feel the vague pressure of ocean as it piles on top of her. The weight of it should be enough to crush her but somehow it does not; she should be grateful for these small protections, but all she can think of is that she shouldn’t need to have them and so all thankfulness bleeds out from her.

Find Pangea.

She takes several more strokes, her body already exhausted.

Find Pangea.

Another, the motion not nearly fast enough, the edges of her vision blurring.

Find Pangea.

She doesn’t care about the dark god’s forsaken land. She doesn’t care that he made something that broke. She doesn’t care that his ego drove him to tether the unwilling to his will and then cast him into the ocean depths. She doesn’t care—she just wants to survive. She just wants to live through this.

Find Pangea.

The ocean turns dark and she swims for what seems like forever.

The ocean turns dark and quiet and her muscles scream as she runs a race that is not her own.

The ocean turns dark and quiet and she is alone until she is not.

Her water-logged paw touches the edges of a land that does not belong floating in the ocean.

She had found Pangea.

sochi

it comes and goes in waves; it always does, it always does
we watch as our young hearts fade into the flood, into the flood

[Mori]

I wake myself up by screaming, suddenly becoming aware of a world filled with pain. At first it seems to be everywhere, coming from every direction. Then I realize it's in my side and that I'm running out of breath. I gasp violently, filling my lungs with air that I use to continue screaming because everything hurts and it's too much, the pain is too much, I can't stand it anymore ... !  I twist around, desperately trying to get at whatever is causing this. My vision focuses just in time to see a piece of dirt finish burrowing into my flesh. My mind, twisted by pain and shock, gives it an evil face and little creepy crawly legs as the last of it disappears.

Bad things seem to happen when I sleep.

Maybe it's because sleep is supposed to be a peaceful time, where the body heals and the mind rests. Maybe the evil in this world enjoys destroying that peace. Or maybe it's just a coincidence. After all, Really Bad Things™ have only happened to me twice, and although two out of two times makes one hundred percent, some might argue that I'd need to wait for more Really Bad Things™ to happen before coming to a conclusion. Of course, I'm not too keen on that experiment.

All this passes through my mind in an instant as I run out of air and my lungs demand more. I attempt to draw a breath and continue wailing, but to my horror the flow of oxygen is sluggish and difficult, the air around me seeming to thicken. Instinctively I try to gasp for more air, but the process refuses to quicken and my lungs are aching. Almost without realizing it, I start to move. My legs are carrying me in a seemingly random direction. I want to scream at them, to demand what they are doing as if they are thinking beings capable of responding, but breath is too precious to waste now.

I spend the journey choking. I barely notice when I reach the shoreline and some random horse starts speaking. It's only when he continues that I actually try to focus on his words. He has a job for me - us, he says. I want to scream at him that I don't care, that he can do whatever it is himself, but still there is no spare air to spend yelling. Then yet another pain blossoms in my side. I twist to see a bunch of gravel attempting to burrow into my flesh. NO! I think, scowling and attempting to leap away from it to no avail. It continues and soon enough I have another piece of dirt stuck inside me. Now isn't that just marvelous?

Find Pangea. Is that what we're supposed to do? But why should we help him? He caused this! He made us hurt, he made the rocks attack us, he is making us choke. But that's all the more reason to obey him, says a voice in my head. He just hurt you for no reason. Imagine what he might do if you refuse him. Grudgingly I listen to the voice and step into the ocean. Still unaware that I'll be able to breathe underwater, I struggle and struggle to draw in a deep breath in preparation before diving beneath the surface.  What - what is Pangea, anyway? I dig through the memories of his monologue, and come up with the answer - a kingdom. He wants us to find his kingdom!

So this place has underwater kingdoms! Forgetting that I am still underwater, I let out a burst of hysterical laughter, realizing my mistake only when it emerges not as sound but bubbles. Panicking, I realize that there's no way I'll have enough breath now. My lungs demand more and I start struggling toward the surface even though I know there's no hope of reaching it in time. The urge to breathe is too strong now and my chest heaves in a huge gasp. I expect the burning sensation of water in my lungs, the terrifying knowledge that I am drowning - but there's nothing.

I can breathe underwater.

While it doesn't solve the problem of a crazy horse with an underwater kingdom or the pieces of rock buried inside me, at least I won't be drowning. I start kicking my legs with renewed vigor, determined to reach Pangea and not give the stallion any reason to hurt me more. I keep going even as my muscles grow sore and scream at me to stop, because I have to keep going. I like being alive - and to stay that way, I have to make the stranger happy.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity - my hooves touch down on mud. I've found Pangea.

[Rajanish]

He’s just a scrawny fellow, lanky enough in his age and see-through at that, not to be noticed. But his father works without watching, he is above them all and doesn’t care, because he’s awesome like that. And his skin screams when small particles of mud, dried upon the wind into sand grains, enter his body. Through skin they go, through lungs he breathes them. But he doesn’t scream. He knows better than to scream in Taiga.

Mother had loved him and told him he was perfect, so growing up he had nothing to worry about. He was a sneaky boy, creepy to some, wanting to know how the world worked in what some would think an unhealthy way. Others - those around him - had encouraged this behaviour, wanting the thrill of a chase, of a catch, leaving the boy behind with the unmoving carcass. For him, that was where the fun would begin.

He still adores Lokii for showing him how a living heart works. One day, he’s going to know all about the brains too. Lungs seemed to be pretty clear when he tested them last, and although it’s fun to see the small balloons rise and fall with the fake breath one can give them, they’re pretty straight-forward.

Unless of course they are suddenly altered. His breathing shallow, gasping, the bay appaloosa colt emerges from the Taigan forest following a stream, looking for water, water to breathe. He has entered said stream - he’s not entirely an idiot - and follows it to the sea, then the sea towards the beach where his godly father awaits. Together with several others. Then he needs to get out and join the group, gasping with the rest of them.

Carnage doesn’t notice or care that one of those gathered - or more, since Rajanish does not know who’s who - is related to him. Perhaps he doesn’t care for offspring that has nothing useful about him; by now Raj has noticed several other horses have traits to use for their unholy work, by now he’s noticed that despite his see-throughness being helpful in hiding and spying, he has nothing to show for in terms of useful evilness.

Standing with the others he zones in and out, listening for the instructions, letting them enter his subconscious. Find Pangea. Simple enough - but he doesn’t even know what it looks like. Yet there is something that has changed him, that causes this inability to breathe air and this longing for the salty waves, that gives him a vague idea that he’ll know it when he reaches it. And besides - he just doesn’t really think about it. The message is undeniable, this is something that is needed to be done, so he just does.

But before they can go, Carnage finds it a good idea to pierce them with more dust. Gravel enters his skin in a fast pace, causing his wounds that sting as soon as he enters the salt water, and only then, after the second piercing is done, he makes a run for it. He doesn’t care for any of the others, if they follow, stumble, fall, get trampled. He cares for those good-looking waves, and when the ghostly kid finally breathes the water, he is content.

For a time being, he floats, swims, walks about the sea floor. He’s lost the others, but if that means he’ll be the lost one or if those around him are, escapes his conscious mind. He has no attention for where he goes exactly, but soon enough, he awakes from his trance.

He’s not the only translucent thing around here. There are creatures with balloon-like shapes, a bit like lungs filled with water instead of air... and he’s late to recognize their tentacles for what they are. Weapons, stingy, poisonous; his eyes close but his skin is afire under the water, and whenever he tries to move some of them surround his legs. Everything hurts head to toes, his right ear stings some more when a more tiny jellyfish seems to float against it and gets itself astrangled for a moment, and Raj barely allows himself to breathe the sweet salty water in fear of opening his nostrils to them. But he has to - and gets stung there also, indeed.

The float of jellyfish passes slowly, and each second is excrusiatingly long. Only when the fiery stings no longer increase, he opens his eyes and forces his swollen legs to move further. His nostrils flare in the water, barely able to breathe in any of the salty oxygen-giving bliss. Perhaps he had no sense of smell underwater to begin with but he dares not go out to the surface to test his theory.

His right ear is dull and throbbing, as well as every hair on his skin, but he moves. There is still a subconscious sense of urgency within him, a task to complete. Find Pangea.

His knee scrapes a rock he has not noticed well enough and, more importantly, not felt. Only the small trickle of rosy blood floating by him makes him aware, for his eyes are the only thing he has kept whole during his encounter with the other translucent beings. Feeling desperate, he contines trecking, unaware yet what his blood attracts. He goes deeper, and deeper, and with the increasing pressure, the bloody scrapy wounds are being pressed closed.

He has a sense of coming home when he touches down, and his swollen, stung body remains unaware of the shadow following behind. He doesn’t even seem to feel the loss of a few tail hairs, but he won’t miss them either. But perhaps it stays away now that he touches the forsaken ground, because it senses greater power at work. A shark is nothing compared to the god of darkness, after all.

[Nihlus]

Life in Ischia was starting to be okay, he decided that morning. Yes, after years of living here - with his lover and their twin daughters - he finally decided that this place would do. Despite there being no ice, despite there being practically no old faces to bother, and despite the fact that he would always resent Ischia for not being the Tundra, he decided it was alright.

He cast his eyes from where they'd been watching the horizon over to Nyssah and Nyreen. In a tangled blob, all knees and nostrils, the little girls - young because time is fake - slept soundly, visible for now. In a few hours, they would be off causing havoc amongst the brothers, perhaps even daring to sneak up on Brennen in their cloaks of invisibility, just to make a rainstorm right over his head and blast him with starlight. Come to think of it, maybe that's why he decided to decide that this place would be okay. He had two little minions to go and do his dirty work; after all, he was an adult now, and if he hadn't anyone to live vicariously through as they made everyone groan and roll their eyes, well, he just wouldn't be able to stand for it.

Then, he glances to other way; to Nuage, his precious lover. A faint smile occupies Nih's mouth, eyes running lazily over the pretty stallion, over the way he cocked on back leg and flicked his ears as he slept. Without needing to take even a step, Nihlus reached over and brushed his nose against Nu's downy lashes; with a little whimper of need and love, the son of Carnage leaned his weight into Nihlus, settling again into a peaceful slumber.

He'd always been an early riser, but on days like today - when home really felt like it - he didn't mind sticking around with his family for a few moments longer.

Zzzzzzzzzz.

Nih straightened, offsetting Nuage but not waking him. What the actual fuck was that.

Zzzzzz -

"Oh fuck no you don't."

He spoke to what appeared to be thin air, but in that air, particles that screamed magic buzzed violently. Nih pinned his ears and stepped forward, furious at the dirt's arrival. "I helped you once already and that's enough, so go on, fuck right off." The dirt hesitated, and zzzzzinged over to Nuage. "No!" Nihlus stomped over to block off the path. "Don't even think about it."

A pause.

Over to the twins.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?" He raced over, looking for all the world like an absolute lunatic as he ran around screaming at the air. "I helped you bring the afterlife to Beqanna! I helped you find Gail! I know you loved her and guess what, I love my family too." The dirt buzzed, as dirt will. "So gooooooo away. Go." He stepped toward it, feinting a bite. "You've fucked with me enough."

And, as the sun came just above the horizon, the dirt zoomed away.

Well. I take it all back. This place is not okay at all.

[Noah]

Once, when she was little more than a child, Kellyn answered a strange summons to stand beside her grandfather, and he sent her into nowhere in space and time to find his lover.

Perhaps the smudge of dirt can’t find Kellyn today. Perhaps, it feels like this littlest of the sisters is the only one not touched by Kellyn’s time in the quest. Perhaps, it’s random. Though very few things are truly random.

Whatever the reason, Noah is frolicking through the meadow by herself, having lost her overprotective father somewhere behind her speaking to a mare that she doesn’t know but he certainly seems to. He, like her mother, would caution her against heeding the calls of anything or anyone she can’t see and touch herself. Rhonen had learned his lesson as well as Kellyn had.

But, neither of them is present. And it’s not exactly a siren song summoning the filly to the sea. Something sharp hits her, and she swings around with a yelp, trying to see it. Her first thought is ‘bees’, though of course it’s the dead of winter and there are probably no bees. She can feel it moving, uncomfortable, but starts to shrug it off and move on. It’s only then that she starts to have trouble breathing, and strangely only moving in one direction seems to soothe it at all.

So, the girl stumbles along until her path converges with another traveler, and another; she stands amongst them light-headed and disoriented, with the water stretching out in front of her and the gray stallion waiting there. It is hard to focus on his words, but she listens, gasping quietly for desperate breaths. Her heart is pounding beneath her chest, and she doesn’t think about how worried her father must be yet – she simply thinks about this thing he wants them to find, and about breathing, and about how it hurts when he cuts them again.

As soon as the man steps aside – her great-grandfather, though she has no idea – the filly rushes into the surf, breathing blessedly deep for the first time in what feels like hours when the water closes over her head. It should feel terrible, drowning is awful after all, but instead it feels like taking the first deep breath of fresh air after being underwater for too long. She is glad of her feathered wings because they quickly take on water, allowing her to sink and follow the bottom of the ocean. Distractedly she stops to admire some brightly colored fish, reaching for them with her tiny nose, but out of the corner of her eye she sees a tiger (a tiger!) swim by and other horses, and remembers the task she’s been given.

A concerted effort of moving wings and legs moves her through the water, though it is incredibly tedious, and she begins to grow grumpy, bored, and weary when at last she finds the island on the bottom of the ocean and collapses onto the underwater shore, just wanting a nap.

[Khaedrik]

Khaedrik wakes to a world that is bitterly beautiful and cold, cold, cold. Plumes of smoke rise from his every breath and the shadows that swirl around him tingle with ice and frost. A painful reminder that he is alive, still a being tethered to flesh and bone and not some shadow-ghost, forgotten and overlooked by all.

The world was vast and shining; and empty save for the boy and his shadows.

Until it wasn´t – until a tiny morsel of defective dirt finds its way into golden fur and brittle skin. There it burrows, festers, chafes and Khaedrik stirs; as if besieged by some eerie ghost from the past. Sick, twisted magic courses through his veins; and his heart hums violently in his chest in response. ”Let’s go” they snarl, coercing him to move his legs. And so he does, guided by the twisted disease spreading through his body, muscles bend and stretch as he builds up to a run – racing blindly through the lands of Beqanna.

His lungs burn, burn, burn but he doesn´t stop until he reaches the shore. The threnody of mud and magic fades, his mind settles and so does his heart.
Until his eyes fall on the dark figure by the shore - with scorn-black eyes that crawl across his skin like he is some vermin waiting to be crushed. And perhaps he is.

Khaedrik has heard the tales of the old god, of course he has. Though the boy has never once thought of the possibility of running into him. Perhaps it is only fitting, he thinks, as he gasps for air, monsters command monsters after all.

Irresolute wistful Khaedrik has no walls of protection to put up against the dark God’s commands, and he can only listen and gulp down the now useless air like a stranded fish. He doesn´t even flinch when the piece of pain-sharp mountain-dirt pierces his skin, only blink dumbly. He will obey the command of course, for what else can he do really? Even if the surge of seaspray on the sea-salt air invokes both longing and revulsion at once he slips into the unforgiving sea – shrouded in the oil-thick darkness of his shadows.

But the sea is suddenly alive with waves and current and lost hope. (images of her floating belly-up in its frothing maw passes through his mind). Ah, if there had ever been hope inside him it is decorative; a formality – a reality that has long since faded away.

Black, savage waters tug at him, inviting him down into their depths – but Khaedrik, this thing of shadow and nightmares tethered to brittle horse-flesh is not made to swim, he is flotsam, trying desperately to escape the undercurrent, flinching at every drop of seawater clinging to his pelt.

But on he swims – fighting against the memory of a girl with the image of seashore in her eye -(drowning, drowning) saltwater-slick and dead, dead, dead. A creature of stolen laughter and haunted eyes and he swims, down, down down – a sad slash of matted gold and jutting angles against the blackness of the sea.

And the ocean opens its maw to swallow him, hungry and feral, and he lets himself be swallowed, consumed by the black depths where he does not belong. And there are no anchors down here to tie him to the shore. Only the blissful will of the parasite nestled in his chest, commanding him to forget everything but finding Pangea and Khaedrik willingly obeys.  

His ears can already discern the roar of the sea as it breaks upon the unforgiving rocks of Pangea down there in the dizzying chasm that has opened below him. Oh, the thing down there, riddled with archaic, twisted magic has him feel an odd sense of longing, as if his shadows sing out to the wasteland below. He paddles faster now, the waters surges – as if to help him reach his destiny and when he tastes the sea again it feels heavy and swollen with sickness and potential.

It is not until his frantic feet touch the dark rocks that he stops. The land spun of nightmares and an ancient God’s bitter failure – and there is something about it that whispers allure into his wretched ears. Perhaps because they are not so unlike, Pangea and himself. But he has served his purpose – for now, and his beetle-black eyes look around searchingly, waiting for the next command from the thing nestled in his chest.

[Raul]

They woke as they had every day since birth. Nose to tail, sides pressed close to one another in the security of knowing exactly who had your back. Brothers, twins, a tighter bond they had yet to learn. Life had been kind to them in their first two years. They had not known a father, but despite this they had a family. Friends to explore with, a mother who did her best by them. Their island home was an endless trove of new discoveries, full of rich food and easy days. It was a haven to the two boys born of ice and fire, who knew that they would be together until the day they died.

Perhaps it was this easiness that brought them to the Dark magic's attention. Too much happiness, not enough strife, made for a dull story, after all. There must be conflict to make the good times worthwhile. Maybe that is why, on a perfect tropical morning, with no other thoughts than what was for breakfast, a trickle of dust darker than the sand beneath it flowed towards the pair with grim intent. Imbued with the essence of Carnage, it wound its way towards them unseen. Two boys, one fair one firey. One so clearly exceptional, with his glimmering blue sheen and wings of milky leather. The other, not so much. True, he was larger and colored like a wildfire. Still, it was clear that gifts had been bestowed unevenly by the fickle fairies on the day of their conception. It was a story as old as time, waiting for just the right nudge to begin.

As cunning as a creeping sickness, the choice was made. A quick worm of dust flowed forward decisively. Fast as thought it surged forward to penetrate the unblemished skin of the wingless colt. Raul reared with the sting of it. The pain was that like the little ants on the island gave when their nests were disturbed. A violent, throbbing ache that radiated from somewhere behind his shoulder. Santana looked at him with sympathetic concern. "Something sting you?" He asked knowingly. As inquisitive as a he was, Santana was no stranger to irritated creatures expressing their displeasure with him. His buckskin brother bent his neck to look behind, searching for some tell-tale insect or thorny branch grazing his back. No such evidence was to be found. No visible marking, just the lingering ache of a puncture. "I don't... I don't think so? I don't know, can you see anything?" The pinto boy looked over his back carefully, but found the same empty canvas of skin. A shrug lifted his shoulders briefly.

Raul's attention was drawn unaware to the water that surged and receded yards away from where they had been lounging only moments before. Beautiful, glassy salt water. Before he knew it was what he wanted, his feet already pointed to the rolling surf, two steps forward before his brother realized they were moving. They were halfway to the water's edge when a deep cough pulled itself from the buckskin boy's lungs. The air didn't seem to want to return once expelled. Sand shifted beneath their hooves as Santana pushed to his brother's side. "What's wrong? Why can't you breath? Are you choking on something?" The questions continued unhelpfully as Raul continued to gag for a breath. Whatever had stung him must be more powerful than he'd thought if he was reacting like this.

You have been chosen

Santana jolted in place as a voice reached them through their distress. Raul simply bent to his knees, weak with the deprivation being forced on him. Where a second ago there had been only empty shoreline now stood a steel grey stallion. He was not so impressive on first glance, until they were able to meet his eyes. There they witnessed the truth of his nature. This was the one mare's told their foals stories of when they misbehaved. The one who lurked at the edges of Beqanna lore, filling each dark corner of history with his own particular brand of providence. This was Carnage.

And Carnage was speaking to only one of them. Santana found himself froze, by natural or magical means he couldn't tell. Only that his twin knelt choking while he could only watch, and listen.
Raul convulsed as the Dark God spoke. He could feel it now, setting fire to every vein. A minute fraction of a damned land had lodged itself within him, promising nothing but a painful death if he dared not comply. Worse yet, the demise of his brother who seemed spelled in place while Carnage laid out his first instruction. Pangea, he had to find Pangea. The basic idea lodged in his brain, alongside just how painful death by suffocation must be. How long and drawn out. Words held less meaning as a buzzing filled his ears, eyes tunneled in until all he saw was the dull grey and black pebble now revolving between them. Unremarkable in all ways, except for that of it's origin. Though the twins did not know it, the small, smooth piece of stone had traveled far to be here. It and it's brothers had began atop the Mountain, and this was not a thing easily forgotten, especially by stone. In mimicry of the pinch of dust which had invaded him earlier, the pebble glided towards him, intent on it's purpose. Opposite of where the dust had entered, the pebble pushed skin and muscle aside until it rested deep within his chest. Laying against the breathless buckskin's heart, it throbbed in time with it's own pulse, playing a counterpoint harmony to the poison ash that now ran in his veins. Two conflicting pieces of earth, fighting for supremacy.

As quickly as he'd appeared, the god vanished once more, leaving two brothers on a shore, fates much murkier than they had been only an hour ago. Raul forced his way to the water, knowing already that it was his one chance at survival. Santana followed, legs finally released from their bondage. "Raul, you can't, not by yourself. I'll come with, as far as we have to go." The winged boy promised, not knowing what he was agreeing to. The flame-maned boy only half heard as his face plunged into the glass waters of the sea. For the first time in far too long, he inhaled and breath expanded his lungs. For moment it was all he could do, just breathing in and out until his vision stabilized and the buzzing left his ears. His muzzled lift experimentally from the cool water, only to return when he realized that submerged was the only way he'd be breathing for the time being. He did not want his brother following him into danger. He did not want to be responsible for their mother waking to find not just one, but both of her sons gone, just as she had been for so long. They had each other in that time. She shouldn't have to handle it alone either. It was a reach, trying to explain this all through facial expressions and snorted bubbles. He should have known his brother would be too stubborn to listen anyway.

They stayed ashore as long as they could, until the foreign matter tugging on Raul's blood grew too insistent. They waded out together until feet couldn't reach the sand any longer. Santana kissed his brother's cheek in good luck, frighteningly quiet now that it seemed their path was clear. His draconic wingspan spread over them, flapping hard until he lifted from the brine and into the cloudy skies above. From there it was a matter of keeping pace with one another, swimming and soaring in tandem. Santana marked their direction by the red smudge of Raul's mane beneath the waves. Despite himself, Raul felt no small measure of relief treading water in his brother's shadow. Together, they could take on the world, and just might have to.

It became more of a matter of endurance than anything else as they traveled further and further from shore, no other land in sight. It wasn't long before even the craggy shoreline of Ischia vanished to the horizon, leaving the pair striking out on the promise of an untrustworthy deity. Santana's wings ached as they never had before when after several hours of travel they sighted the ominous hulk of Pangea. It loomed before them like a sleeping giant, waiting patiently to swallow them whole. Raul lifted his head from the water more frequently as they approached. This was where he needed to be, the stones in his chest insisted. This was their destination. The sea began to flow more choppily around them as they approached, pushed by a rising wind. At last the sea expelled them, the wind fighting hard to prevent Santana from touching the damned soil. Raul stood waiting for him to land, able to breath again as soon as his hooves touch Pangean sand. It was a tidy magic, the way it had made it's meaning clear. No, he could not have disagreed with it if he had fought like hell to do so. Others stood nearby, bearing the same vaguely hunted expression that he knew his own eyes held.

Santana dropped to the beach with an exhausted thump, only to scream and lift his feet in a pained high step. Raul raced to his twin's side just as the painted colt flung himself skyward once more. He did not feel anything beyond a general foreboding now they he stood where he was meant to be. Santana swooped in a low circle, landing with much more caution this time around. Again, his feet touched the sand for mere seconds before he was forced back up, away from the land. Pangea would not hold him. Raul couldn't watch his brother hurt himself a third time. "Tana, go home! I'll be okay, I swear. Tell Mom... tell her I'll see you all soon. Please Santana, go home." He cried out as the winged half of their duo drew slow circles above his head, misery plain on both their faces. Santana recognized the tone in Raul's voice, knew it meant that negotiations were over. And he was tired, so tired already. He couldn't land here, and wasn't all to sure he could make the flight home without falling into the sea like an exhausted stone. Still, he knew he was out of options. He made a final pass before taking off the way they'd come. "Gods keep you, Raul." Was his final call, feeling the hypocrisy as the habitual words slid from his tongue. The gods were why he was leaving his brother in this forsaken place at all, with the burden of explaining to their mother where her other son had gone. Damn the gods.

Raul watched as his brother's pale form melted into the stormy horizon, praying he reached Ischia safely. Praying for his own safety, though he did not know whom he was hoping would hear him. The pulse in his chest pounded it's unnatural rhythm, thrumming a promise as he stood alone on the shore.

It's just begun, just begun, just begun

[Zain]

He had left his classmates, swiftly.  He couldn't bare the thought of them seeing him like this.  Petaled flora began emerging from his thick forelock, twirling earthward in a whimsical display like tiny dancers. Annoying ballet pixies with delicate, flowing movements. 

Disgusting.

He had hid himself away, deep in the Forest.  He couldn't return to his clan of misfits in Taiga with this shamefulness all over him.  What kind of Carnage worshiper would have such purity expelling from their body?!  Try as he might, he could not kill the vines of blush roses. Cursed magic!  Each zap of his blight only brought new shoots to begin weaving through his locks.  Soon he had given up and plastered himself along the far wall of some sort of animal den.  dragging his sides down the dirt cave walls, he attempted to rid himself of the perfume the roses decorated him with.

While pressing his body into the musty soil, a sharp tinge of pain radiates through his body, "OUCH! What the..." his large body twisted around to see what it was that had so rudely lodged itself into his hind end.  Craning his neck to view himself with fiery eyes, he scans for a wound that he is sure is there, but he finds no mark. Not yet.

The pain doesn't subside, if anything it grows.  It pulls him from his den and into the light, eyes again seeking something.  "AH HA!" There is a dark mark, no more than the size of a fly, at the point of his hip bone.  Finding it though does little to help his situation and so his search is futile.  

His brow furrows in frustration as he contemplates what to do now.  His ears rest along his neck in frustration as he snorts a flower from his face.  Muzzle wrinkled in disdain, he glares into oblivion. Think, think, think.  A wrenching in his gut brings him to his knees.  A black bile spills from his maw and onto the littered earth.  Upon seeing this, his eyes grow wide in panic, forelimbs regaining an upright stance.  He needed help.

.

The crest of the mountain is high in the clouds as he nears the base of the formation.  Heavily feathered limbs move him at a labored trot through lands covered in snow and ice.  It wasn't far from where he had been within the Forest and so he arrives quickly, but to his dismay, he is not alone.  Dammit! He attempts to cover the thorny vines with thick locks before anyone notices.  Within the center of the flock, a grey-washed stallion begins speaking as if he had been waiting for them.  Carnage?  He would know his own God better than anyone...

You all have been chosen.  Stretched to the far side, is a sanded beach and an eerily still ocean surface.  The stallion looks to it with a command. -you will all go into it.  Then he looks to those gathered, as if concentrating on something greater.

"OUCH! What the fuck!" another sharp pain stabs at his other side. He turns to look at it but his attention is stolen by more demands.  If this were any other equine, he would defy them.  Spitting in their arrogant faces for thinking they could command him like some dog, but his God, he would do anything for...

.

He doesn't hesitate as some might -these unbelievers.  Bone collides with water when he leaps into the waters icy embrace.  He is unsure if the sensation creeping through his body is from the chill of the ocean or his adrenaline, but he continues on.  Treading out into the deepest parts before diving beneath the surface, a grin plastered on his face. 

His body is cumbersome in the water but with mighty strokes of his thick limbs, he draws himself into the frigid depths.  Down here, waterlogged trees lay mangled about.  Sea urchins cling to them, their poisonous barbs presented to any who dare get too close.  He would not be that moron.  

Coming to rest at the ocean's bottom, his hooves plant easily in the murky soils.  It was most fortunate that magic allowed him to breathe here, instead of choking on the water that would threaten to fill his lungs otherwise.  His fiery eyes glowed, like beacons, in the dirty waters that hazed his figure.  Creating an almost demonic apparition. 

The others begin to appear and he wonders what instructions awaited them from his Dark God... 

Zain

ReBeL jUsT fOr KiCkS

[Rey]

Rey

Rathing road (as I call it) is slick with winter mud. A ribbonish trail, winding and somewhat straightforward, that leads one out from Beqanna’s heart and directly to the shoreline which encapsulates us all in this hellish sort of island. Yes, I think to myself, trudging one leaden step after another while my clear wingtips trail heavily through the muck because they’re limp from exhaustion, Beqanna is nothing but a spot in the ocean, and her islands Ischia and Tephra nothing more but smaller, less significant dots.

Clearly I feel bitter.

Unaccustomed to having work put on them, my legs falter beneath the heavy weight of my pale green body and I stumble. Both forelegs fold and my knees slam into the earth, splattering shit-colored muck onto my heaving breast. I can’t breath, for god’s sake - not since I’d been struck out of the sky by a dark projectile that now sits like a heavy, cancerous lump right beneath the skin over my left brachii bicep. That thing had taken control over my sensibilities and steered me far off-course from Sylva, throbbing painfully if I so much as veered a few steps away from the beach.

"Magic, it has to be magic.” I surmise, struggling to stand though my head reels with lack of oxygen. There’s nothing left for me but to continue, mostly since the hideous mass burrowed into my chest won’t exactly allow for rest. Whoever wields the damn intrusion is neither patient nor forgiving, and I do well to keep this in mind when my dazed excursion finally ends where, ironically, Beqanna ends too. I peer up -

“Dear God,” I think correctly, staring in His face while the world dissolves around us. “ … chosen … my Kingdom … a job …” He replies, aching beauty etched into his very existence, a terrible sight that burns my awakened eyes and lulls prettily in my ears. Had I ever seen before this? Had I ever really heard sound, or felt alive? The bitter cold and those gathered around don’t matter because they’ve never mattered but this … Him; I know He matters more than anything I’ve ever considered real and tangible before. I would do anything He asked.

I feel true fear, maybe for the first time.

But he cripples me (like he should) and I stumble backwards, thrust into a sense of reality by the smack of stone as it rips open the flesh of my right bicep to nestle into my being. “Thank you,” I cannot I say but I feel it all the same, loving Him and His hate because my issues run deep through an ancestry of pitiful, vile worms and their lack of affection mentally twists me into something no one can ever fix. I don’t want to be fixed, anyways.

The goal is water (He’s forgiving after all, is He not?) and the ants alongside me swarm towards its embrace while the father God ushers us on. To Pangea we go, one by one, myself stumbling and eager through the breakers. “Water cleanse me, water become me, water, water …” I think numbly, swallowing the inky liquid in heaving gulps before it curls atop my head. I blink, and then I swim, and then I blink and breath and swim all while realizing that this is yet another test, wondering why I do this to myself but knowing why (stupid, lonely girl.) The mountain take me; I can’t help myself.

None of us even realize that we’d awoken it, the old beastly creature: ten long legs with a narrow, sac head and eyes as cold as the water it lived in. Our fault, really, but my luck that it would den beneath the surging waters displaced by my grappling wings that flounder uselessly beside me. No doubt incensed by my reckless advance it flew upwards, tentacles blooming from the dark like deadly vines, scuttling over my thin legs much more quickly than I can react to yank me along for dinner. I do little to fight back, encumbered as I am, and it twists me into a killing embrace - pulling, wrapping, stroking - eager to press a hard beak into the beef of my side for something of a quick taste.

Close enough now for reaction, I swing my head around and bite the rubberish flesh near to me (we take from each other) and for a moment I think it will render my guts to a puddle but on second thought, it seems to reject the idea of a dinner with attitude. Or perhaps I’m luckier still and it’s already eaten. Either way it chucks me loose, (Yes, I think, blood flowing freely from my shoulder, “you taste the bile too”) and I swirl through the eddy of black tide until a landmass halts my forward propulsion.

It seems I've found Pangea.

Wanna step to me better think twice
I might look pretty but I'm not that nice