((Directly follows Retribution and is backdated to reflect that.))
Wreck Havoc Word Count: 1321 words
Labyrinthite fails to anticipate any of this and perhaps that’s why he feels like he suddenly suffocating. His chest is constricting, airways closing until he’s struggling to breathe and he’s grasping at his throat while gasping for air. His knees buckle beneath him and he drops, knees crashing against the cold stone, grasping at his chest. His fingers curl into the fabric, digging in and twisting like it’ll do something to alleviate the sharp pain that shoots through him.
I messed up, I messed up, I <********> up, his mind chants to him as his body rocks forward and a hand shoots out to catch himself, to keep him from collapsing into the ground and a fresh wave of pain shoots through him from his palm and up his arm. Foolish boy, he chides himself because, like the fool he is, he’d caught himself with his injured arm. His broken arm. <******** you Iris, he curses while he grits his teeth and tries to calm his breathing.
His heart pulses rapidly, skyrocketing his heart rate until it moves at the speed of a hummingbird's wings.
He can still taste the starseed on his tongue, imagines the splintered shards stuck between his teeth and littered on his tongue. It makes his stomach churn, the feeling of vomiting crawling up his throat as he attempts to choke it back down.
Stupid, stupid, stupid boy. You’re so stupid. His mind coos at him all while racing rapidly in a poor attempt to devise some solution for the situation he unwittingly tangled himself up in. You’re a disgrace, the voice in his head tells him and it sounds startlingly familiar. Sounds like the stern, ever disappointed tone of his father.
Even in death Samuel haunts his son.
It’s all your fault, the voice whispers in his ear and Chase closes his eyes as tightly as possible like it will block out the words. His teeth clash together in a nasty grind and the fingers of his injured limb curl into the casted palm all while he tries to breath.
He’s suffered panic attacks before, but this one is the worst in a long while.
She’s dead and it’s all your fault, the voice is no longer a whisper in his ear but a full fledged snarl screaming in his mind. Both hands shoot up to cover his ears and he ignores the stabs of pain that shoot through him.
“SHUT UP!” He screams, voice carrying farther than he meant and echoing off of the stone walls of the building they’d left him before.
First you killed me and now you’ve killed your mother, his father’s voice taunts, what a terrible son you are.
“SHUT UP!” He cries again, eyes squeezing tighter as he rocks his body back and forth. His father’s voice doesn’t listen as it says, this is all your fault. You did this. You don’t deserve anything better than rotting here in this dungeon your so-called cause left you in.
“It’s not like that,” he mumbles, rocking himself onto the balls of his feet. His eyes open slowly and his breaths are shaky. His chest still feels like it’s constricting and breathing hurts from the squeeze. “I-I messed up,” he stammers shakily. “I can fix this.”
You can’t bring her back. You can’t bring me back. You killed us. We died because of you. It’s all your fault.
It’s all your fault. All your fault, the voice chants and he shakes his head.
“I didn’t mean it. This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he protests weakly, victim to the taunts in his head. They don’t tell him anything that he doesn’t already know. He’s the reason his father’s dead and now, now he’s the reason his mother’s dead. He’s the reason everyone he loves, loved, leave him. They’re better off without him.
He’s a monster and there’s no going back.
A snarl to his left brings him out of his inner torture and he reacts instinctively as something lunges at him. He throws himself forward, out of the way, in a tuck in rolls and a flare of chaos bubbles within him. It pools in the center of his chest and spreads itself throughout his lanky frame, washes power over him as magic melts his clothing into a familiar uniform and cloak.
His heart's still racing and breathing remains difficult but his attention is distracted by the creature that prowls it’s way towards him. He inhales sharply and twists on feet to face the beast, good arm extending to hold the scythe that begins to materialize in his hand. His fingers close over the shaft of the weapon and a wave of calm washes over him.
Suddenly, his lungs expand and he can breathe again. Fight, combat, calms him immediately.
This is familiar, this makes sense, this is normal. (The adrenaline that pulses through him quiets the voice in his head for a moment.)
He straightens, eyes narrowed and lips curling upward at the edges as he slides forward just as the beast lunges again. He drops to his knees, skidding beneath the belly of the beast, leaning his body backwards even as he lifts his too-large blade and slices into the underbelly. The monster collapses to the ground with a thud and Chase--no Labyrinthite rises as his heart rate calms.
You will apologize to me with blood, sweat and tears. The Rift will be kinder to you than I will be, and perhaps you will learn your manners there. As you are now, you are expendable, he hears, remembering the terrible conversation with the Queen. I will destroy you if I must. Even the imaginary voice makes him shudder, chills and terror running down his spine. I strip you, Labyrinthite, of your status. You have no authority, no privilege, no favor. If you cannot serve the Negaverse, it will not serve you. You will keep your weapon. Perhaps you will keep your life The punishment was cold, cruel and perhaps he did not think he deserved it but, the guilty never did, did they?
Labyrinthite had known that he’d be held accountable for the treachery committed against the Dark Mirror Court, he’d been the only one to come out seemingly unscathed by his decision to participate in White Phoenix. Failing to removed the senshi princess would surely cost him too, but he’d been trying.
Princess Iris was one of the only people he’d never been able to read or manipulate or use. She held a strength that far surpassed anyone he’d ever met, even the sovereigns that ruled over the Negaverse. There was a curl of something that burned white-hot in his chest, the flames wrapping around his iron-heart; hatred.
He should have known better than to use blood and violence to make a statement, but he’d been so tired of that pack of white mooners who’d been ambushing him and now….now he’s potentially risked the safety of his pack.
He should have known that they were watching him, they were always watching. What a foolish leader he is.
His arm aches as the adrenaline fades and he’s reminded that, in his powered state, the cast that’s keeping his broken arm no longer exists. A hiss of pain eases through the space of clenched teeth and he inhales deeply, dragging his scythe behind him with his good arm.
He needs to find a place to rest, lest he burn up too quickly and not live to survive this punishment.
Labyrinthite was nothing if not strong, capable, adaptable. He would survive, he was certain, and when he returned he would be remade, stronger. Better. A force that even Laurelite could not deny.
Or so he would dream.
Posted: Thu Dec 01, 2016 3:01 pm
Conviction Word Count: 1630 words
He loses track of time pretty quickly in these parts of the rift. There’s no sunlight or equivalent to mark the passing of days and it’s not like he’s ever worn a watch, not as Labyrinthite anyway and it’s foolish to power down for something so trivial as checking the date and time. Though the ache in his wounded arm makes it tempting as the makeshift sling fastened out of his cloak and whatever materials he could scrounge isn’t doing enough for the broken bone. It’s one of the few instances where he wishes that glamour and magic didn’t take away as much as it gave.
It’s night time, he thinks because there’s a quiet hush that’s descended upon the area.
Truth be told, the reaper general hates that there’s still so much of the Rift that he’s unfamiliar with. This particular stretch is a perfect example, it’s foresty in a way most of the parts he knows aren’t. Trees sprout from cracked Earth and stretch upward until branches are bowing beneath the ceiling. There’s moss on rocks and he thinks he can hear the babble of a brook as he walks, good hand pressing against tree trunks for support.
Every part of him is on edge, it has to be, because he has no authority, no respect from the creatures that haunt the foliage. He has to earn it, respect, and that’s not something he’s had to do for years now. It’s unsettling but he’s capable. He has to be if he wants to survive..
Foolish boy, hisses the voice that sounds like his father. You deserve this, it tells him and Labyrinthite cannot even argue. He does and he was arrogant for thinking he could act as he did without consequence.
Shame creeps up his neck and stains his ears red when he thinks too much about the conversation with Laurelite. She’d once been proud of him, pleased with the work he was doing with his team, and he’d made the mistake of growing complacent. Of thinking that he was the golden child, a favored one who could not do wrong.
But even the favored make mistakes. Even the mighty fall and he knew better which is why it all feels like a blow to the chest with a weight that sits heavy on his shoulders.
You killed her, his father’s voice hisses and Labyrinthite grits his teeth and pushes forward, begins a trek through unfamiliar woods.
“I know,” he croaks, voice rough and scratchy from disuse. “I killed you too.”
Monster, the voice hisses and the general can only sigh as he pushes a branch full of thorns and leaves out of his face so he can go deeper. The air is humid with all of the trees and he beneath all of his layers he’s sweating. He doesn’t stop moving forward though, wincing when his broken arm knocks against something.
“I’ve never denied it,” he says, stepping over an overgrown root that breaks the mossy surface and extends another fifteen feet. He misses the city.
There’s a rustling from above and the general barely moves back in time when a mantis-like creature drops from above, mouth appendages chattering at him while big reflective eyes look at him curiously. Inhaling with a hiss between his teeth, the man prepares for an attack.
It does not come, the bug creature observing him for another moment before it’s mouth clicks again and it’s bounding through the forest. He is apparently not worth it’s time and he cannot decide if he is offended or relieved.
Eventually he sets up in a hollow of a tree he’s found. It’s barely big enough for his frame to fit, let alone give him space to summon his scythe if need be, but it’s secluded enough to give him a place to hide and hopefully sleep. It’s been a long time since exhaustion has seeped into his bones so readily but he thinks he hasn’t slept in days. It isn’t hard to figure out that he’s a candle burning at both ends if he doesn’t get some sort of rest.
It takes awhile, but eventually he falls asleep.
Drip, drip, drip.
Labyrinthite wakes to the sound of rain.
Or what he thinks is rain, which is a surreal thought in itself because the general can’t begin to understand the ecosystem of the Rift. It’s so incredibly complex that he’s marveled, and horrified, by it at the same time. Then, he thinks of course it rains because how else would one explain the foliage that blossoms and blooms throughout the vastness of it all.
He tries not to think about how it rains because while he is logical, he is not a scientist and he knows that overthinking magic of all things is a bad idea. So he doesn’t, he pushes thoughts of the mystery rain and the way vegetation grows, thrives, in the bowels of the rift life like in the depths of the ocean.
Drip, drip, drip.
The sound is jarring, startling him from sleep in that way only nightmares do. His eyes are bright and wild, his heart beating with the force of a fast rift drum solo. Arms flail and the broken one slams into the bark of the tree’s hollow and he hisses, regretting the wild action immediately.
The broken limb is still tender, half-healed and possible to damage too easily.
With difficulty, Labyrinthite pulls himself out of his resting place.
Long legs maneuver around roots and foliage, an arm reached out to steady itself against bark, and there was a hiss of pain that slithered between tightly clenched teeth as the wounded arm scraped against his hide-away’s opening. There is, ultimately, something very grounding about the painful throb of his limb.
As someone who’d more or less become desensitized, pain reminded him how to feel and it reminded him of what had led up to this.
Monster, the venomous voice in his head sneers. You’re nothing but a worthless monster, no good at protecting your family and worth nothing to the people and kingdom you’ve pledged yourself to.
Despite his efforts, Labyrinthite struggles to ignore the dark curling whisper of his father’s voice. “I am not worthless,” he snaps, tension in his body pulled tightly like a string ready to snap. “This is a lesson.” Everything was a lesson.
Tell me how you’ve failed me, Laurelite had said to him. Even now, Labyrinthite can feel anger simmering beneath his skin at the memory.
Anger, pain, and pleasure. Those were all things that he still understood with ease and now, now he can feel the rage bubbling beneath the surface of the front he’d so carefully constructed. He could feel the dull aching pain in his chest, a sizeable hole created the moment the life went out of his mother’s eyes - it sat nicely next to the fissure that’d been created when the shards of glass had punctured his father’s heart.
Laurelite sent him to the Rift to be punished, to be reminded of his place in the pecking order despite his efforts and his accomplishments. How foolish he’d been, to think himself invincible after Metallia praised him, after Laurelite had looked fondly at him.
Even the favored are not exempt.
He should have known and yet he’d chosen ignorance.
Now, Labyrinthite can only hope that he’d cautioned his wolves well enough to know better. They were a force to be reckoned with and he knows he can put his faith in them.
They’d survive until his return.
And he was going to survive, if only to return to spite Laurelite.
When he moves across the foliage, leaves crunch beneath his boots and the sound of wet grass squishing beneath his heels is too loud in his ears. His chest rises and falls slowly, each breath inhaled cautiously; this part of the rift is unfamiliar, dark and must and new in an unexpected manner.
In truth, he’s not even sure how he ended here. There had been so much wandering in the first few days mixed with delirium and exhaustion from skirmish after skirmish with youma that deemed him right for the picking.
And he wonders if they’ll return. If they’ll rise from the pile of dust they’d collapsed into and seek him out again, or if one battle was enough.
Then, he wonders what else awaits him in this hellish prison.
Once, the Rift had been more of a home to him than anything in the city, anything above ground and now - now it’s become something he’s starting to loath.
But wasn’t that the point? For Laurelite and her subjects to take the few things he cherished and to twist it? To strip him of everything but his loyalty and what strength he can muster until he is broken and remade as they saw fit.
It was no matter, Labyrinthite has more strength than what the Negaverse has given him.
He will bend, but he will not break and he will use his punishment to prove that.
If his Queen expects him to learn a lesson, it will be that he has the strength of a phoenix. When he burns and falls to ashes, he will rise; remade and reborn anew.
I will take this lesson, he thinks, teeth gnashing against each other as he picks his way carefully through the forest, and I will turn it into a legend. A legacy that is mine.
Because Labyrinthite is nothing if not a survivor.
Nuxaz
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Nuxaz
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Posted: Tue Jan 24, 2017 3:00 pm
Strength (1,269 words)
The trials of the Rift prove to be endless.
Labyrinthite spends more time fending off youma than he expects, but he’s not surprised by it. Not really. There’s no such thing as authority here in the bowels of the Rift, there is only respect and strength and those are both something that need to be earned or displayed. As it stands, Labyrinthite has not earned the respect of the youma that populate the area he’s come to frequent.
But they’re beginning to learn of his strength.
The fights are long, grueling even and by the end of the day, or night he’s still not sure how to tell how time is passing, his body aches in the same ways it did when he was young and just getting his feet under him. It’s been a long time since he’s struggled in combat, but the demands of the Rift and the creatures inhabiting it are starting to wear on him, chipping away until he’s raw and exposed.
Then, they sink their claws in him and try to tear him apart.
Labyrinthite struggles to meet their demands, but he’s never been one to give up, so he fights back and bares his own teeth and claws. It’s increasingly difficult, with his broken arm still healing, and his general weariness. His body is running on fumes, which is not completely abnormal, but the Rift is unkind in ways that the city is not.
At some point, the six-eyed raven finds him.
It’s after a long day (could it even be called a day when he was uncertain of the passage of time?) of one battle after another. The general has reached the stage of bone-weary, broken arm aching and crying out at him, and there’s a flesh wound on his side from where a feline youma got their claws into him. It stings, aches, and bleeds but that only serves to give him a sharpness and clarity he knew he had been lacking.
“The Rift is no longer a home now is it?” The raven asks, perching upon one of the strange trees that grows in groves here, something Labyrinthite still cannot comprehend. One set of eyes remains unblinking as the bird tilts it’s head at him, many wings folded into their large body.
This is the closest the youma has ever strayed to him and he’s startled by it’s size.
“The Rift is as it always is,” Labyrinthite replies, an answer that is not an answer at all. His voice is hoarse, rough and scratchy from underuse because who has he had to speak with since he was banished?
If birds could grin, Labyrinthite would think that this one surely was, because at least one of set of those devilish looking eyes, who’s red is deeper than any that has ever stained his scythe, looks mirthful at him. “Tricky general,” the bird sneers, snapping its beak together in a series of chatters. From somewhere in this forest, Labyrinthite can hear branches creak and leaves rattle.
“Do you think that you will survive?” The raven asks and Labyrinthite wants to scoff, angry and bitter, at the question, gold eyes flashing with something akin to fire.
He wants to say of course I will, but something makes him hesitate. Things are different now; he no longer has the authority to demand that the youma scatter, there is no reprieve from the long, grueling battles, and he cannot leave. There is no possibility for him to nourish himself here, not that he has found yet.
“It is the goal,” he says instead, an answer that implies his intentions but also is realistic. Labyrinthite is not foolish, he knows better than to assume that he will survive. But he plans to, even if it is merely out of spite.
“Curious and curiouser General,” the raven chirps, smaller similar looking youma coming out of the forest to gather on the branches of the tree the six-eyed one has taken roost in. “What kind of wonderland have you found yourself in?” The youma’s expression is neutral and the way one set of eyes always remains unblinking is unnerving, but the tone is mocking and Labyrinthite wants to grab the bird by it’s throat and choke the life out of it.
“The hellish kind,” he responds, standing a little straighter and trying not to wince from where he knocks his wounded arm against the trunk of a nearby tree. “But not an impossible one.” That is most important, to assert that the rift may try to break him, but he would not let it succeed.
As long as Labyrinthite is still capable of standing, then he is capable of pushing forward.
He didn’t survive this long, nor carve a name for himself out of blood and sweat and flesh, to be broken inside a place full of shattered, hungry souls.
Laurelite must think he fits right in, because his teeth were bared and his soul screams, I am hungry, feed me.
“What purpose do these inquiries serve?” He asks, stepping forward boldly.
“For what other purpose?” The bird asks, cocking its head and blinking each eye separately but in a row. It’s a weird shutter of eyelids and red, like someone was thumbing through a flip book. Around the raven, the rest of the bird youma begin to clatter in unison, speaking some sort of language Labyrinthite lacks the energy to try and understand. There’s a puff of feathers, with the raven’s chest inflating and it’s four sets of wings spreading in a manner that he can only describe as a shushing gesture.
All around him, youma go quiet. There’s no sound outside of the steady inhale, exhale of his own breath and the drip, drip, drip of left over water falling down an array of leaves from the rain that had fallen across the terrain.
“To test, of course,” the bird said, voice loud and booming. “Your strength cannot solely rest in the physical.” It sounds more cryptic to the general than it is, and it has his mind whirling, but he nods as if he understands anyway.
If he doesn’t now, surely he will later.
“They look for you, you know,” the raven says, one eye darting to the left, making eye contact with another avian youma. It pushes off its branch, then circles Labyrinthite in a low flight pattern before dropping something glistening at his feet. “They suffer,” the bird taunts, before there are too many flapping wings and gushes of air created by them for Labyrinthite to question or demand answers of his own.
Many of the bird youma shriek or squawk as they fly way, some of them dare to get close enough to the general, with their beaks snapping when they’re close enough to n**. None of them actually touch him and slowly they disappear from his immediate vicinity, leaving only the raven, who’s head is twisted upside down as it stares at him.
“They will survive,” Labyrinthite says firmly, refusing to consider the possibility that they won’t. His wolves are well trained, armed to the teeth with all of the knowledge he had been able to teach them and, while he knows that there was too much he hadn’t taught them, he is confident in their survival instincts.
Wolves were stronger as a collective, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t survive on their own.
“That does not mean that they will not suffer,” the raven replies.
Labyrinthite shoots back, “they will be stronger for their suffering. As will I.”
Posted: Tue Jan 24, 2017 10:10 pm
Discovery Word Count: 2,575
Labyrinthite wears exhaustion like a heavy cloak across his shoulders and it shows in the way he holds himself once the raven has left his presence. Finally, he takes the time to examine the glistening gem that one of the birds had left behind in it’s wake. It nearly sinks into the blue-purple grass that is soft and pliable beneath his feet, just out of sight if it were not such a starkly different color. It was a starseed, brilliantly orange, with the shine relatively dulled, but still so terribly bright.
His mouth salivates at the sight of it, to his dismay, but it has been so long since he has anything rife with energy.
It will not provide him true relief from the gnawing of his belly, but it will provide temporary relief and allow his body to heal enough from his scrabbles to be able to engage in more, without the fear of burnout. Labyrinthite sways in place unsteadily as he considers the gem that glitters in his hand.
In truth, he is surprised that the raven, or it’s flock of underlings (and Labyrinthite wonders how a hierarchy of youma works when one is not a greater youma), had managed to hold onto such a thing without giving into the temptation to devour it. But the creature had been watching him for some time, perpetually circling the skeleton tree, and being a constant presence in any of his ventures into the rift prior to his banishment.
It had been there when he had deposited the knight’s starseed, then the senshi’s, and so forth.
Labyrinthite wonders if this starseed was one of the many that Laurelite claimed he wasted. Perhaps the bird was saving them for him, but for what purpose, he cannot discern. That thought alone is troubling, but he tries not to dwell on it for fear that it will only draw out his thought process.
In the end, the general closes his hands around the starseed and thinks of his mother.
While he knows it is impossible, for there has been too much time that has passed, he thinks he can still feel the splintered shards of her soul on his tongue.
It makes swallowing this one that much easier, the delicate gem shattering against his molars and scattering across his tongue. The shards don’t cut up his throat as much as his mother’s, but still manages to burn on the way down anyway.
The energy from the starseed seems to last him three days, or what he approximates is three days.
At first, he thinks that consuming it is a mistake because the energy thrums through his veins like a bad case of the shakes, leaving him shaking and on edge. It has been weeks, he thinks, since he has eaten anything of value, but somehow, he is still functional and while the starseed leaves him high strung and slightly anxious he knows that the energy is better than nothing.
He needs something to keep going.
So Labyrinthite takes advantage of the strength it provides him and pushes himself until he feels like he might collapse from the exhaustion. His body is used to used to going for long periods of time without food or sleep, but still struggles when pushed to the extremes.
No amount of training would have been capable of preparing him for this.
Trudging through the forest, Labyrinthite keeps his eye out for that bird he knows is likely always watching him. Sometimes, as he moves between trees and foliage and steps over gnarly roots that break free of the stony ground to grow despite there, realistically, no reason or explanation for how things grow here in the heart of things.
Of course, his travels remind him of the time they, a group of agents on a retrieval mission, had ventured deep into the rift and had found a village whose youma villagers had demanded that they prune unruly plants.
Was it the same concept then, here?
Then again, Labyrinthite thinks that perhaps a touch of magic and the rain that seems to fall every few days is enough to grow a forest and house a myriad of creatures who slither about and hiss in his ears.
Monster, they tell him from time to time. One of us, they’ll demand when they think he is at his most vulnerable, but then he will snarl Monster I may be, but one of you? Never.
Labyrinthite thinks himself to at least be strong-willed enough to not break beneath the hands of youma.
He would shatter his own starseed before he would allow himself to become a youma.
Join us, the birds will chatter, the very same, he thinks, that the six-eyed raven had summoned. He wonders if they watch him for it, if those glowing eyes masked behind the shadows and heavy leaves, are merely there to keep tabs on him.
“Never,” he snarls, all teeth and the sharp jagged edges of himself that the Rift and it’s trials have torn open, exposed him for the broken mess that he truly is.
One of us, the youma will chatter as they snap at his heels, force him to wield his scythe despite its weight and the strain it puts upon his still healing arm.
I will never be one of you, Labyrinthite thinks defiantly, as his blade glistens in the weird dim lighting of the forest, the arch of the curved blade singing brilliantly when he slices and cuts and destroys.
I will be wild, untameable, and malleable, but never breakable enough to be like you, he thinks before he continues to trudge on.
As he travels, the general discovers that something is tugging at his chest, drawing his feet forward despite the way they throb with each and every step he takes. His face is scratch, early signs of stubble around his jawline, and his hair is slick and greasy from going days without washing. Labyrinthite even thinks that there is a film of dirt that’s smeared across his skin and clothing. If not dirt, then crusted blood and dusts from the numerous youma that he’s slain and the injuries he’s sustained.
The cut on his side has healed nicely, a side effect of the starseed he knows, but he’s received many more since he’s begun to seek a path outside of the trees. And his arm aches in that dull manner that’s felt in his bones and he wonders if it’s healing properly. While he attempts to refrain from thinking about it too much, he cannot help himself. The arm is in a makeshift sleeve derived from his cloak that is far from perfect but all he can do until he can find a place safe enough for him to rest and be Chase, not Labyrinthite. That’s a risky gamble in itself, because he lacks the strength, power, threat of superpowered alter ego but -
He wants to wear the cast for a bit, to see how it feels and to make sure he’s getting better in a constructive way.
And maybe he’ll draw less attention when he lacks an energy signature. The thought is laughable, foolish in a way that he knows would make him seem idiotic, but Labyrinthite has slowly, but surely, been worn down by this place. His resolve is astute as ever, but his body can only take so much.
If he doesn’t find something edible soon, then it won’t matter how much strength he has.
So, he travels.
There’s a stretch of time where youma do not approach him, but he is overtly aware of how some of the quadrupedal youma stalk behind him, low growls in their throats and hunger in their eyes. Lizards crawl across the bark of the trees that he passes and he can hear the relentless buzzing of some that are insectoids.
The chattering of the birds, however, are what keep him most alert. For reasons he doesn’t quite understand, they send shivers down his spine, leave goosebumps visible on the exposed skin of his arms and the back of his neck. He can understand the angry growls and hisses, because those are warning signs, unmistakable if he has learned anything but this, the chatter and chirps are not malicious in nature or sound.
Instead, he hears a constructed melody that vibrates him to his core.
There is only one word he can think of to describe what he is hearing, symphony.
At some point, and he is incapable of deciphering when, Labyrinthite finds himself following the song the birds are singing. It becomes some twisted game of hot and cold, their loud squawking voices growing only if he continues upon the correct path, a sudden hush befalling all of them when he takes a wrong turn or he stands still for too long.
It’s unnerving, in a way that is unfamiliar to him.
The tugging in his chest is growing stronger too and the general cannot decide if the feeling is a pleasant one, but he cannot seem to deny it, allowing his feet to lead them wherever the tug, and melody are strongest.
He passes a tree as he walks and unlike the rest of them, that were full of nothing but leaves and vines, this one is abundant it...what appears to be fruit. It’s enough to make him pause mid step, stomach rumbling as he looks at it. Instinct tells him no, but the hunger and the slight desperation tell him otherwise and before he can stop himself, Labyrinthite finds himself reaching for the fruit.
Despite the overwhelming desire to bite into it now, to determine if it’s edible, Labyrinthite sticks one, two, into his pocket and keeps a tight grip on a third. Soon, he thinks, when I reach somewhere…safer.
As if such a thing might exist.
Content, and semi-confident that he could find the tree again, or more like it, Labyrinthite carries on.
The forest would end eventually, even if he didn’t make it out of the woods any time soon. The last dregs of starseed provided energy seep from him, with Labyrinthite feeling as though the ground beneath him, the one that hums with the life of the Earth and the threat of the youma that lurk in its depths, is draining it from and reclaiming it much like he might from some hapless victim if he were in the city. His movements grow sluggish, like he has a lead weight strapped to either ankle and he can feel the hunger rumbling within him, no longer a quiet nag but something loud and angry.
The bird’s symphony has grown loud enough to be almost deafening when he finally discovers a light at the end of the row of trees that he’s been winding through. It takes him more willpower than he’s willing to admit to trudge those last few yards, but he makes it, with his bare hand pressed against the rough bark.
Frustrating as it is, Labyrinthite’s chest is heaving, those bright eyes of his glassy and unfocused as he stares ahead of him.
At first, he thinks he’s hallucinating, it would make sense when he considered the fact that he hadn’t slept for however long he’d been running on starseed provided energy nor had he eaten something notably safe for consumption in so much longer than that.
But before him is a large, partially sunken building.
The sight of it calls to life something within his very core, a humming that explodes from within and spreads itself from his chest to his veins and to the tips of his fingers and toes. Were he not on the verge of collapsing, Labyrinthite might have felt reinvigorate, instead he is filled with enough of something that allows him to stand on his own, no longer needing the tree trunk for support, and for the shine to return to his whiskey colored eyes.
Resting atop the entryway is none other than the raven, with its many wings folded against its body and those unnerving eyes blinking in sequence at him. “I am surprised you made it this far, general,” the bird coos, sounding horribly smug.
Labyrinthite opts to ignore the bird, instead redirecting his attention to crumbling structure, half sunken into the ground and, upon a third sweeping glance, he can see that it is merely a section of what was, very clearly, a much larger building with enough intact that it is, perhaps, uninhabitable.
“Now where are your manners Labyrinthite?” The raven asks, clucking in what he thinks is an imitation of laughter. The sound it hollow and bitter and Labyrinthite thinks that he could go his whole life without ever hearing it again, because it sends a shudder down his spine that he blames on his weariness.
Were the circumstances normal, the general is confident that he would have none of his weariness, the weakness, bared as he is now. “General Labyrinthite,” he sneers in response, golden eyes on the ornate wooden door that sits inches below where the bird’s claws extend. “Where are your manners, bird?” He asks in a mocking, gaze flickering up as he steps forward.
“I have led you here, have I not?” The youma asks, head twisting so that it may look at him upside down, beak split open for a round of terrifying laughter. It’s manic sounding in a way that he thought only existed in fiction and film.
“Perhaps, but not without a calling,” he replies, opting for something as cryptic sounded as he gets from the youma. “I would have found this without you,” he says, certainty bone deep because he knows that this place has been tugging at him since the moment he got close enough.
On the door is an insignia he doesn’t recognize, but knows that he knows in that nagging, deja vu sort of way.
“Reeeeaaaaper~” the raven calls in a screeching, high pitched voice, “what do you see when you look before you?” It asks, laughter ringing in the air, followed by a chorus of chirps and chatters from what he can only assume is the flock lurking in the trees. “Do you see things for what they are or do you see past?”
It’s the emphasis on the word past that has Labyrinthite curious and he steps, feet heavy as he forces them to comply. “I see them for what they could be,” he answers, brows knitted together as he lifts his gloved, wounded arm and presses his palm, glove and all, against the symbol etched into the wood. “I see opportunities,” he says, more clearly and firmly than before.
The carving shifts beneath his palm, the wood feeling warm and alive against the fabric of his glove, and something glows so brightly that he must squint against the harshness of the light. There are mechanisms he can hear slotting into place, the whirling of gears as the symbol shifts beneath his fingers, the thrill of adrenaline crawling across his skin.
There is a click, followed by a harsh slamming and the door creaks open.
Labyrinthite looks triumphant when he steps through the door, raven cawing loudly behind him.
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Posted: Wed Feb 01, 2017 11:17 am
Sanctuary Word Count: 2609
Behind the door is a long, narrow hallways littered with many doors, or doorways filled with rubble. Stepping inside, Labyrinthite wonders if the youma will follow him, be some sort of twisted guide in this demonic form of wonderland. It doesn’t and the building’s door slams shut behind him once he’s just past the entryway. On the other side of the door is yet another sigil he doesn’t know, but feels that he should recognize.
A whirl of turning gears and clinking clogs has the door mechanic’s locking into place, but something inside Labyrinthite tells him that if he presses his hand against the door again, it will swing open on it’s creaky hinges just like before. This place, whatever it is, is safe, which is a startling thought in itself but one so powerful that General Labyrinthite does something he did not expect to be able to do; he powers down.
All of the pain is much fiercer, spreading through him in a manner that is almost crippling, as Chase but, with much difficulty, he remains standing.
Slowly, with every part of him aching, Chase walks forward, shoulder pressed up against a wall and his hand cradling the cast of the other. It feel strange, having something solid wrapping around his injury again, but he’s grateful for it because he’d been worried that...like Zircon, it would heal incorrectly.
As far as he could tell, it was stable and healing correctly, for now.
He makes it to the first door, fifteen yards away from the door he entered through and when he attempts to open it, he find that it only pushes open a crack and then stops. Leaning his weight against it does not help and he lacks the strength and energy to do much else, so he moves on instead.
There comes a point where he shuffles his feet instead of lifting them to walk properly, choosing to do so when there is an obstacle he must step over. After three doors that will not open on the left side, Chase drags his weary body over to the right side of the hallway and is pleasantly surprised to find the first door he tries gives way.
The creak of hinges is harsh on his ears, though less so than the clinking locks and grinding gears of the entrance, but the sight before him makes up for all of it.
It is a room, with a strangely well preserved bed inside, among other things, such as a chest at the foot of the bed, a disassembled suit of armor, and the tattered remains of a tapestry on the wall. It’s a pale purple, faded too much to be considered lavender, with a trimming of what he thinks might have been a gold fringe. The symbol in the center is one that he recognizes, albeit barely, because it looks like it might pass for an h, but the curve of the foot is too long.
Seeing it stirs awake something in his chest, his eyes of gold shining too brightly as he looks upon it, one foot sliding in front of the other until he’s teetering beside the bed, torn between collapsing upon it or making is way to the tapestry. The thrum of his heart sings familiarity and his pulse beats do you remember?
He doesn’t, but he could, he thinks.
In the end, he careens forward, exhausted body no longer capable of keeping him upright. The bed is harder than he expects, filled with dry straw that pokes through the bare fabric of the mattress. Luxurious, it is not, but it is far more than anything he has found since he arrived in the rift.
Every part of him hurts, muscles twitching beneath him as he lays, face first into the bed. He barely has the strength to properly lay upon it, groaning as his muscles pulse painfully when he lifts his arm to drag himself on the straw mattress. The pain is not enough to keep him from falling asleep.
Pain is something he is accustomed to after all.
Growling from his stomach and hunger pains are what cause Chase to jerk awake, heart a fluttering mess in his chest. With a headache in the making and throat too dry, the man struggles to make sense of his surroundings, nor can he tell how long he has been asleep.
Sitting up hurts, spine cracking as he arches his back, vertebrae slotting back into place at the movement. Whiskey eyes blink several times, surroundings blurry and unfocused, with the room spinning around him. Another rumble of his belly and Chase is forced to clutch at it, head throbbing too much to think properly.
He needs to find something edible soon -
Oh.
He’d forgotten about the fruit.
The transition is quick, fleeting, with that rush of power as chaos climbs over his skin and replaces his mundane shirt and jeans with the familiar uniform and cloak. The second skin is gone nearly as quickly, with Labyrinthite pulling out the fruit and spilling them upon the bed.
One of the nearly rolls off the edge, but he snatches it up by the leafy top, pulling it into the air and suspending it above him as he drops his guise and glamor and reverts back to Chase. Being unpowered in the rift is a dangerous idea, but he can only sustain himself for so long as the fearsome general he projects without supplies and, from what he has been able to tell, the place if devoid of life, monster or human.
The raven hadn’t followed him in and Chase has begun to suspect that it can’t.
He cannot shake the eerie familiarity that coats his skin as he sits on this straw stuffed bed, nor can he ignore the itching that crawls beneath his skin whenever he glances that the symbol embroidered into tattered fabric. Still, there is a humming, a melody that coils around his core and calls to him.
Whatever this place is, it calls to him, and he knows that he is meant to be here.
The fruit twists and swirls as it hangs in the air, leafy top pinched between two fingers and a thumb. It is colorful, green and pink like a dragonfruit, with many rough triangular points littering the surface. It fits in his hand, though he cannot wrap his fingers around it completely and he cannot tell if it is edible just by looking at it.
But then his stomach rumbles again, pain hot and tight in his belly enough that were he standing, the would have been brought to his knees.
Chase knows that if he does not eat something, he will die. It’s hard to push that logic against the idea that if he eats this, he could die from it too. The room spins, his arm aches, and his belly screams feed me. So, he takes a bite.
Juice explodes into his mouth, dribbles down his chin and his eyes go wide in surprise. He did not know what to expect, but it hadn’t been that. The fruit is sweet on his tongue, the juice a welcomed, pleasant, feeling as it sides across his tongue and down his throat. Chase finds it far more difficult than expect to keep from devouring the fruit, and the other three he had the foresight to grab, immediately.
The fruit could still be made up of poison or some sort of compound that is not digestible by humans, simply eating it had been quite the gamble, if he’s honest, and Chase doesn’t want to push the risk any more than he has. What small amount he’s eaten has certainly aggravated the hungry beast inside him, but he’s still trying to be cautious.
He needs to make it out alive. (The reasons come unbidden and Chase attempts to force them away while also struggling to resist shoving the rest of the food into his mouth; Outside of the rift awaits his wolves. He must make it home, if only for them.)
While he waits for time to pass, for the signs of poison to manifest, Chase eases himself off the bed, still clutching the fruit too tightly in his hand. Standing gives him a headrush, with the man feeling as if the world will tip out beneath his feet but it passes as quickly as it comes.
Still, he has to brace himself against a bedpost, chest heaving, because the hunger makes him feel like he might vomit. It takes several breaths, inhaled through the nose and exhaled from his mouth, before he feels capable of moving.
The rift-fruit has fallen from his hand, juice leaking onto the straw mattress and staining it with a greenish tint.
With his eyes squeezed shut, bridge of his nose pressed between thumb and forefinger, he wills himself to still have enough strength to be capable of wandering. If he were the religious sort, this would be where he dropped to his knees and prayed, but the world has shown him that there is no such thing as a god.
Or rather, that there is not a god who cares.
(Would his parents still be alive if there was? It’s hard not to wonder what if.)
Chase had hoped that sleep, true uninterrupted sleep and not the half-awake, always alter sleep from his time in the rift tree, would help his weariness and it did, but it also showed him how he’s slowly deteriorating too. The body can only take so much before it begins to shut down on itself and if the man cannot find true substance, if these fruits he’s collected are not nourishing enough, that will be what breaks him.
Not the youma and their trials.
The possibility serves to alight his cheeks aflame with shame, because Chase thinks himself better than a demise at something so mundane. When he goes, he wants to go out in the glory-filled blaze of battle, not some slow withering death brought about by starvation. That would be pathetic and he believes himself to be anything but.
His legs are stiff as he forces them forward, back towards the doorway. His muscles cry out in agony and his arm throbs beneath it’s cast, feeling swollen and angry from all the time spent without. Chase has probably slept on it poorly too, too worn to be aware of the way his body tossed and turned throughout sleep.
Getting into the hallway is a slow process, with a long pause beneath the door frame where he has to clutch his angry stomach and focus on breathing until the pain dissolves.
Three or four doors on the left will not budge open again, nor will the three across the hall, which he finds peculiar but carries on, carefully counting doors to ensure that he doesn’t lose track of the door he left open. The building is clearly one built of magic because much of it is preserved in an eerie sort of way even if it has been touched by the passage of time.
His feet slow at the fifth door on the left, head dizzy and Chase must lean against the solid wood, hand wrapped tightly around the metal handle, to catch his breath and keep from keeling over.
Everything must be a slow process and Chase is incredibly frustrated by it all. He is used to being in control of his body, his strength, anything and to feel it all slipping through his fingers is enough to make him want to put his fist through a wall. He doesn’t, because he can’t expend the energy, but he wants.
Leaning his weight into the tarnished metal handle, it dips and the door creaks open.
The room is much like the first one he had found, decorated with a simple bed that has been pushed into the corner of the room, a trunk at the foot of it, with a nightstand within arm’s reach. Upon the nightstand is a candle and a book of matches and Chase crosses the room, to grasp the book with his bad arm and a match in the other. The match head slides across the flint easily, scraping sound reverberating in the small room too loudly in his ears, but the flame is bright and comforting because it is so normal in a place that is full of twisted versions of things.
He lights the match and the white and gold tapestry shimmers a pale blue and purple that reminds him of Hvergelmir. Upon it is a symbol that he does not recognize, despite the nagging sensation that he should. He pushes the feeling away when he blows out the match, sliding it upside down back into the book and continues to survey the room.
A drawer is visible within the confines of the night stand, along with a cupboard looking component and there is a closet in the corner opposite of the bed that is barely wider than the expanse of his shoulders. There is a no door and it appears to be empty, dust coating the floor, walls, and the bar that’s built into it.
Yanking the drawer open, it’s pulled free from the track and the contents spill upon the floor. There is a book, some sort of guide that reminds him of a bible, a fountain pen and ink well that breaks open and stains the floor with an ugly blob of black. He pays it little mind because there is a satin pouch, the color of a dark purple with a gold tie keeping it closed.
Immediately he is drawn upon it, kneeling upon the ground, barely mindful of the ink as it seeps into the knee of his jeans. Long fingers pick the pouch up gingerly, satin feeling too soft against his skin compared to anything he has touched in days (weeks?). Sitting back on his calves, Chase undoes the tie, two fingers slipping into the opening and easing it apart.
Once he can fit more of his hand inside, he carefully eases out the contents which turns out to be a vial filled to the top with a liquid the color of untarnished gold. At first, the glass feels cold in his hand, the satin bag discarded to the floor while he inspects the vial.
That tugging in his chest is demanding that he pop the cork and drink it. Hesitation flickers across his face for a brief second before he’s grasping it in the fingers of his bad hand, grip clumsy, and tugs the cork out. The lip of the vial is pressed to his lips when he pauses, heartbeat erratic, and thinks this is a bad idea.
Then, he thinks what do I have left to lose?
So, Chase tips his head and the vial back, eyes closing as he swallows it down in one practiced gulp from his days of taking shots like a pro. It tastes sweet, in the way honey tastes sweet, with no other distinguishing flavor as it slides down his throat, easing the sore, scratchy ache.
Unsure of what will happen as a result of drinking the potion, Chase waits, vial lowered and hand smoothing across his jeans to rid himself of sweaty palms, when the glass seems to splinter when it heats in his hand, fractures littering the vial without shattering it.
Peculiar, he thinks, before his vision goes black.
Quote:
Using the Golden Vial obtained during the Holiday Event of 2016, memories to be obtained in the next couple of solos.
Golden Vial - A vial, roughly the size of a finger, filled with slow moving golden liquid. The vial will always be in an unmarked pouch of any color or fabric and can be found discarded or hidden on Homeworlds or Wonders, within the depths of Mirrorspace, or within the Dark Kingdom. To use this item, you must uncork the top and drink the full dose at once. Splitting the dose will yield no effects. The golden liquid tastes sweet, but has no identifiable flavor. Once emptied, the vial will heat up and the glass will appear covered with a dozen cosmetic golden hairline fracture; the vial is not damaged in this process. Drinking this liquid guarantees that you will have some memory of a past life, regardless of your affiliation or faction. Even civilian characters will have a short memory of their past life. Only one memory may be recovered clearly, but that night you may also have vague dreams of up to three other partial memories. Mauvians can also use this but should not have memories on Mau; youma can use this item but the memories they receive should be them as a human in their most recent life. The vial can be kept as a memento.
Posted: Fri Feb 03, 2017 1:30 pm
Castle Word Count: 2063
The force of the memory is overpowering and it clouds his vision, dark and patch until he can’t see anything before him. Chase isn’t even certain if he is still kneeling or if he passed out on the wooden floor. He supposes, if this is how he goes, then there are worse ways to die.
Except -
He can feel the beat of his heart in his veins, the thump, thump that pulses steadily in the confines of his ribcage.
If this is not death, what is it?
Chase realizes that he is not awake, but not asleep either. Instead, he’s in an inbetween state; something that is hazy and foggy. When the memory comes, it hits him with enough force to topple him over and leave him gasping for air.
Before him is a man clothed in dark purple, gold sigil of Saturn emblazoned on his uniform and Chase - no Labyrinthite...no this is someone else entirely….- stares him down, dark brows knitted together and dark expression on his face.
“I have no quarrel with you, Marmoreal,” he says, though his sword is unsheathed and gripped fiercely in his hand. Jaw clenched, his chest rises and falls with each harsh breath he takes, and there is sweat beading on his brow.
The knight, Marmoreal, doesn’t seem to care for his expression is twisted and angry, the promise of conflict and a quarrel lining every tightly strung muscle of his body. “Aye,” Marmoreal sneers, a twisted grin on his lips as he steps forward, “but I have quarrel with you.”
Ticking jaw, this not-him knight flexes his fingers around the hilt of his weapon. “Did you not learn from last time?” He finds himself asking, brilliantly gold eyes flashing with something, that dark coil in his heart surfacing briefly.
“That senshi of yours is not here to save you,” Marmoreal taunts and not-Chase can feel his stomach twist.
“Iris is not mine.” He snaps, spinning on his heel as Marmoreal lunges, point of his blade aimed for his gut, but he dodges it with a practiced skill. “People are not possessions.” He snarls, which is laughable, because he’s referred to a few as his behind closed doors.
But the majority of his life has knighthood has been spent liberating people from their shackles. Not-Chase cannot begin to regret what paths he’s chosen since he abandoned his castle.
“They were too soft,” Marmoreal growls, blade crashing against his own. It’s a struggle to push back because he is not at his full strength, still recovering from the last attack. “You risked the entire galaxy for a single person.” There’s no hiding the disgust and disdain in the other knight’s voice.
“Her star needed her, knights are replaceable,” he snaps in kind, aggravated by the poor opinion Marmoreal appears to have. “What purpose does this have?”
The clang of metal echos across the courtyard as he swings the sword over his head and it collides with Marmoreal’s parry.
“If they won’t punish you, I will.”
“I would like to see you try,” he replies, mouth twisted in a shark-tooth grin.
He doesn’t know how long the fight drags on, with so many clangs and crashes of steel slapping against each other. At one point, he’s certain that he sees sparks from the way the swords slide against each other when he parries and shoves Marmoreal back.
A well aimed swing and he slices through the front of Marmoreal’s uniform. The cut on the skin is shallow at best but it’s enough to leave the man reeling, hissing as he presses gloved fingers against the wound.
“This isn’t justice Marmoreal,” he points out, eyes narrowing when he advanced on the knight, leg lifting to kick him squarely in the chest. The force of impact is enough to send Marmoreal sprawling to the ground, gasping for the air kicked out of him.
“This is vengeance,” he snarls, pressing a foot against the man’s chest with enough weight to keep him from talking. “And vengeance will do you no good.”
The battle over, he turns his back on the fallen knight, head shaking and dark mop of hair brushing his forehead, and walks away. His chest heaves, breathing irregular and the thrum of adrenaline buzzing in his veins. “We are done here,” he states, pausing in his gaite to look over his shoulder at the knight clad in dark purples. “If you ever step foot on the grounds of my wonder again,” there is something dark in his expression, an ugly coil of the beast that dwells within wrapping around his heart, “there will be no mery.”
It is impossible to miss the threat. If he sees Marmoreal again, the knight will surely perish. He is not so pure that blood doesn’t stain his hands, he is not one of the senshi he keeps dear to his heart.
He has always been a little too ugly for that inside.
Perhaps it is naiveity, or the mercifulness of his good heart that has his turning his back on the fallen knight. He should have known that the battle was not over as long as one of them lived.
He falls before his wonder, knees crashing into the concrete before the steps that lead to the castle door, with a sword in his chest and blood dripping from his mouth. He can feel his life flash before him, a series of fond and brilliant memories mixed with horrible ones he’d rather forget but all of the details are distorted and fuzzy, full of things that he cannot make out no matter how hard his mind tries.
The strike of the blade is smoother than he expects once it pierces his back and tears open the soft lavendar of his knight garb. He feels foolish immediately, because, how could he not have expected this?
Marmoreal is more jaded than any of the other knights, having taken personal insult to the lax sentencing the runaway knight received upon returning to his station.
The sword slides in cleanly between his shoulder blade and through one of the gaps of space between his ribs. Easily, he feels the way his lungs will with blood, an inaudible gasp leaving him in the wake of the attack. Behind him, Marmoreal pants in his ear, weight thrown into the sword to pin him in place.
“You endangered us all with your selfishness,” comes the hiss in his ear, blade sinking hilt deep into not-Chase’s chest.
In the edges of his blurring vision, he can see the grim reaper standing with open arms, calling to him. Your time has come knight of saturn.
No, he pleads, eyes of liquid gold unfocused and shaking with each ragged breath he takes. I am not ready, he thinks, but death does not care.
It does not matter if he is ready or not, death comes to collect when the sand’s run out.
With considerable effort the jaded knight pulls his blade free, the point catching and tearing not-Chase’s lungs when it breaks loose and his strength starts to leave him.. More memories he cannot hold onto flash by him, but he at least, recognizes the faces.
Iris, Elu, Ahe, Nephthys...members of his...crew?
His lungs fill with the copper liquid and all he can taste is metal in his mouth as his body careens forward, hands futile shooting out in an attempt to catch himself. His palms scrape against the rough stone steps and bleed. It does not hurt.
Death is painless, he realizes.
“I-- I do not r-regret--” Crims wheezes, words coming out in stuttered gasps as his fingers grapple at the steps. Black dots are swarming his vision and things keep blurring around him. The world is spinning around him and his thoughts are scattered, incomprehensiable. “M-my c-choices.”
“You are a disgrace,” his killer hisses. “Perhaps the next knight will not be such a failure.”
Not-Chase blinks and the world goes black.
When he come to, the steps of his castle greeting him, Marmoreal has left and he is alone. A raven shimmers into existence beside him, cawing angrily at him. It is his summon, he realizes, looking at the bird with a pained expression. He might not hurt, but his body is failing and frustration bubbles within when he realizes that the clock is ticking and he is running out of time.
Reaching for the bird, who hops out of reach, with something grasped tightly in his fist, gold chain scraping against the concrete when he stretches his arm too far. “I n-need--” he croaks, body shaking when he succumbs to a coughing fit. Blood splatters across the stone and his shirt is soaked with blood. The edges of his vision are fading out and he struggles to cling to the last shred of life within him.
“You must - “ Thinking is hard, with thoughts disappearing just when they’re within reach. “G-give this - “
“As you wish, Tarren of - “ The raven’s voice fades out, but he can feel the way they tug whatever he’s holding tightly in his hand. It’s round, smooth, and metal and he thinks it might be a pocket watch but...
His head falls, pressed against the cold stone and that’s when he knows, this is the end. No princess will be rushing to his aid that he might reward with a kiss of gratitude, there will be no knight who fights to keep others away from him as he sails through space. There will be no more second chances.
For all his luck, not-Chase has reached the end of his story, with death knocking on his door.
I am a rebel-made king, he thinks, thought pressing against his temples, before he takes his final breath.
When Chase comes to, gasping for breath and eyes fluttering open with a heartbeat too fierce rattling in his chest. The vial is still held in the hand of his broken arm but in his right hand, there is something new, cold metal pressing into his skin.
It is the pocket watch he grasped so tightly in his - it was his wasn’t it? - memory.
Upon it is the sigil he recognizes as the same one upon the door. This time, Chase knows that it belongs to the knight from his vision even if he cannot place the name.
The watch opens, exposes a glass face and a ticking hand. There’s a button on top, disguised as the twist in which to wind the top. The tugging in his chest encourages him to press it, thumb sliding across the gold when he hesitates.
Closing the watch, he slides it into his pocket, picks himself up off the wooden floor with his legs trembling as he forces himself to stand. Stomach rumbling, he makes his way back down the hallway and to the door that he’d left swung open. The fruit remain on the bed, which he crawls and sits cross-legged upon.
Pocketing the vial, he retrieves the watch, thumb rubbing the indents on the metal while he reaches for the bitten fruit.
It’s now or never, he thinks, because he isn’t dead yet so even if the food turns out to be poison...it doesn’t matter.
He eats it all anyway.
It’s delicious in that way food always is when you go too long without eating and he savors each swallow like it might be his last. When he’s done, he feels a little stronger, reaching for another when he decides that it’s time to go back to be Labyrinthite.
His injured arm aches less now that it’s free of it’s cast confines and Labyrinthite thinks that, perhaps, it is healed enough that he won’t have to worry about it healing wrong or needing to be in the cast again. If his new food source proves, well, fruitful he won’t need to revert back to Chase any time soon.
Which is what he prefers, because he cannot stay in this sunken sanctuary forever.
Whiskey eyes glance at the watch still held tightly in his hand. It hadn’t disappeared when he went from Chase to Labyrinthite. Interesting.
The face opens and the general presses down on the button. It flashes a bright and blinding purple.
The light consumes him.
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Posted: Sat Mar 04, 2017 10:50 am
Once Upon a Dream Word Count: 1383
When the light fades, receding into the watch that reads a countdown from five minutes, Labyrinthite realizes that something about his uniform is off. No, not off, completely and utterly different. There’s a rippling sheen that he deduces to be some sort of magic that shimmers over him.
Upon closer examination, he discovers that his hooded cape is missing completely, the card suit shirt of his uniform replaced by something collared and...lavender. When he shifts, he learns that he does still have a cape, held up by charcoal colored epaulets. Around his waist is a belt, buckle displaying the symbol from the tapestry that called to something deep within him.
Saturn.
Rocket science is not required for him to put two and two together and know that, without a doubt, the knight he dreamt of was himself. Marmoreal’s connection to him makes a little more sense.
He wonders if it’s considered irony to know that his killer in his last life died by his own hand for what appears to be the very same reason. Then, he wonders if the others from Skaikru were linked to him in this life he doesn’t remember but knows is his own.
This is strange in a way that the future memories were not, because this memory is so solid, Labyrinthite can feel the sword piercing his chest and pulling free, like an aftershock. Like he was there.
Getting up is difficult but Labyrinthite finds a way to manage, snapping the pocket watch closed and stuffing it into a pocket. Undeniably, the man is curious about what he looks like fully and sets out to find a mirror of some sorts.
Six doors and three rooms later, Labyrinthite finds himself in a chamber that looks like it’s befitting for royalty. The bed is large, with a canopy set up and worn, tattered, drapings from the top that are pulled towards the posts and tied off by gold rope. The colors of the fabric are a shimmering white to gold and blue and purple.
Cosmos, he thinks immediately, the nagging feeling and thoughts he associates with Hvergelmir pressing against his temples.
Against one of the walls is an ornately carved dresser made of dark wood, the symbols of the various planetary knights crawling up the arch of wood that housed a mirror. The craftsmanship is admirable, undeniably so, because it has stood against the passage of time and the woes of the rift.
With still heavy feet and a throbbing temple, Labyrinthite carries himself over to the mirror. The glass is dusty, as he expects, and a careful swipe of his sleeve against it cleans it enough to give a decent reflection. The man looking back at him looks very much like how he always looks.
His features are gaunt, a telling sign of his exile and lack of proper nourishment, with dark bruising beneath his eyes from his insomnia and lack of sleep, but his hair does not hold the bright pink that it always does. Instead, his hair is starkly black, a solid color that reminds him of his captaincy and the way he had decided to take his duties more seriously.
The main difference is his uniform. If he didn’t know better, if he couldn’t feel the swirl of chaos that coursed through his veins, Labyrinthite would easily mistake himself for a Saturn Knight. Immediately he wonders if his energy signature is still that oppressive dark swirl of energy, the suffocating kind for those unaccustomed or free of Metallia’s influence.
Spending a few more minutes observing his new appearance, Labyrinthite takes a seat upon the canopy bed’s mattress. It’s plush and soft in ways the straw-filled one is not, clearly designed for the noble folk.
When he lies back on it, all six feet of him stretched and sprawled across it, he thinks this is a bed befitting a king.
The echoing thought of I am a rebel made king matches the beating of his heart as his eyes flutter closed and his breathing slows.
Maybe sleep is a good idea...
Dreaming is a foreign concept to General Labyrinthite.
Primarily because he hardly sleeps, insomnia being a wicked thing that’s plagued him since he was a teenager, but also because, after the barrage of memories and nightmares, he has a difficult time discerning what is real and what isn’t.
Not-Labyrinthite, dressed in his lavenders, silvers, and golds, is standing on a platform. The world around him is bleak, full of hopelessness that makes his stomach twist into knots. There’s a flash of another, more distant memory, full of violence and rage and despair, that sits at the forefront of his mind as he stands, large ship at his back. All along the hull are people flitting back and forth, ropes being tossed over sides and anchors drawn up here and there.
Everything is distant, fuzzy at best, like a film that’s been overexposed and poorly developed. There’s a tinge of black that blots everything, inky and spreading trendials like veins, and it leaves a prickling feeling against the back of his neck as though something is wrong.
He cannot tell if it is because of the place or the memory.
Tightly gripped in his gloved hand is a piece of parchment, the sigil of Hvergelmir emblazoned brightly on the back of it. Many creases marr the paper, with Not-Labyrinthite’s grip tight and unforgiving around it and the expression he wears is a sour one, dark brows knit downward and mouth pressed into the line of a frown. While he often looks serious, dangerous even, these days, this is different.
Tension is settling in the spaces of his spine uncomfortably and his crew is on edge because of it.
The port itself is nothing new, he’s been through it several times with cargo and people but this -
Neph has summoned him with a letter so vague he has no idea what to make of it. Everything is poisoned by a heavy fog that clouds his vision and ruins his focus.
“▓▓▓▓▓▓ - “ Neph is calling his name but she sounds so far away… “Please I - “
It takes several shakes of his head before things snap into focus again. Gold eyes blink when they meet a matching set, inches shorter than himself, on the face of a woman he knows all too well. As always, Neph holds herself in a manner that is both firm and malleable, a rare combination he has never seen in anyone else.
She is grateful to see him, but also sorrowful in a way she’s never been before. When her mouth opens, he can see that she’s talking but he cannot hear the words spilling from her lips outside of the hummingbird flutter of his heart as it roars loudly in his ears and thumps along in his throat.
“Neph,” her name spills out scratchy and hoarse, because whatever she’s said to him has dread pooling in his belly. “Of course but - “ He’s agreeing, saying yes to whatever favor she’s asking, but he’s also reaching for her, large hands cupping her face.
“You weren’t supposed to be the foolish one,” he says sorrowfully, feeling the ache of his heart spread through his limbs until every part of him hurts.
“I don’t want to say goodbye.” He murmurs, everything fading to static after.
When he wakes, it’s much more peaceful than the time before. Whiskey-eyes open slowly, blinking owlishly as he pulls free of the dream world that grips him so tightly. His fingers tingle from where they had pressed into the woman’s skin. Nepthys’, or Neph as whomever he once was called her, image burns brightly in his mind as he rolls over, swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up.
He knew her then and he knows her now. Hvergelmir, as radiant then as she is now, of course. It is then that Labyrinthite decides that if he survives, he will find her.
For now, he must return to the task of finding a way to continue to push forward without burning up. Sleep keeps his limbs heavy, but when they wake, he sets to explore the rest of the building.
Posted: Mon Mar 13, 2017 8:32 pm
Numb Word Count: 2,030 Words
Another two of the strange fruits are consumed by the time Labyrinthite has combed through the building for anything of value. Outside of the vial, who’s liquids are still having residual effects, and the pocket watch, which he’s not sure is a result of this place or not, there hasn’t been much of anything. He feels better, slightly rested and with more strength than before, so he figures that counts for something.
While the building has been forgiving, providing him a surprisingly safe space in a place crawling with monsters, he knows that he cannot reside in it forever.
Banishment is a test of his strength and the Rift is his teacher. He will not shy away from the struggles and will, instead, welcome them.
Survival; that is something he knows too well.
Sometimes, his arm still throbs, but not enough to deter him from continuing forward. When he leaves, it is through another door that he has found, this one reaching up to the roof and reacts very similarly to the one that he opened to enter. Cogs and gears twist in places he cannot see, but can still hear, and he watches as the open expanse of the Rift reveals itself to his weary, tired eyes.
Cawing can be heard in the distance, a shiver running down the general’s spine as he reached up and hauls himself out of the hole.
“Reeeeeaper~” A sing-song voice calls to him, followed by the chatter of many beaks and the caws of several chattering birds. “What did you find down your rabbit hole~” The bird asks, eyes blinking in a sequence that is, as always, unnerving.
A head it twisting and the raven is staring at him upside down, with all eyes trained on him and it’s beak twisted open in what he thinks is a ghoulish smile. Metallia’s monsters will never cease to surprise him. “Come on reaaaaper,” it chatters, beak clacking sharply as it’s head rights itself. “Tell us what you found.”
Labyrinthite’s jaw ticks, while his biceps strain to pull him out of the sunken building, the door sliding shut with a loud BOOM the moment his feet are free. For a moment he sits, body rigid with tension as he stares back at the youma and the many eyes that litter the foresty section of the Rift he cannot seem to escape.
Ravens are not crows, but when he sees all those bird shadows and the six-eyed creature staring at him with disturbing interest all he can thing is, this is a gathering for a murder.
Carefully, he picks his answer. “I found what I was meant to,” he says at least, with something as cryptic as anything the youma has given him while he’s traveled through this twisted wonderland he’d rather leave behind him.
“Did you find what you were missing?” Questions the bird.
“One must be aware of a loss to miss it and I miss nothing,” he replies, sharp and jagged like the rest of him. An image of his mother flashes in his mind and his heart aches in a way he thought he’d long outgrown.
As always, Lara is the last of them to entice any sort of painful emotion like love from him.
Then, because the almost memory is still fresh in his mind, he things of Hvergelmir - or rather, Nephthys.
I don’t want to say good-bye, echoes against his temples, rattles back and forth in his brain. His chest is constricting, a rare sense of longing filling him as he sees flashes of eyes that match his own staring back at him with too many things he does not deserve.
It’s startling to remember what it’s like to have someone believe wholeheartedly in him.
He hates it.
“The trial’s not yet over,” the bird cooes, a resounding chorus of trail’s not over echoing from the trees and the birds he cannot see. “Carry on reaper, carry on! Deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole! Where will it take you! Where will you go? What path will you chose?”
It’s not until he’s back on his feet again that he snarls, “I chose the path I carve for myself.”
Labyrinthite does not know how long he’s been walking, but his feet carry him forward and his body is not yet weary. Along the way he has found another fruit tree and had collected enough to sustain him for a time, though he is still weary of how much he can reasonably ingest before ill-effects begin to take hold, if there are any.
At some point, he has left the forest behind, the cawing of birds an ever present reminder of what he is leaving behind as he trudges forward. The powerful tugging in his chest has dissipated, the same way the magical Saturn knight-cloak had melted away and he’s feeling a little bit aimless, but there’s a hum - a pulse beneath his feet that calls to him in a different way, like there’s a leyline beneath his feet that he’s compelled to follow.
Instincts urge him forward and Labyrinthite has never been one to suppress them, so he listens, and he follows.
The only interruption to his travels is a skirmish.
A swarm of youma attack; a mix of two-legged human reminiscent creatures and mutated animals, with their insectoid wings and broken forms. Despite how rested he feels, he has not recovered from the onslaughts from before and his movements are more sluggish than he would like.
Circumstances worsen when he begins to hallucinate.
Out of the corner of his eye, he swears he can see the unruly wolf, with his sneer and wild eyes but he blinks and the image is gone. From behind one of the humanoid youma’s he thinks he sees his mother reaching for him, sad eyes and his name shaping her mouth - it is but a youma who’s hand wraps around his throat and squeezes.
The scythe drops, dry and cracked ground splintering beneath it with a cloud of dirt and dust rising and choking all of them.
Labyrinthite frees himself with a risen leg and a kick to the youma’s stomach when it’s stickly arms hold him too far out and above. It turns to dust when he snaps it’s neck before reclaiming his weapon, blade glistening as he hacks and slashes through the remaining.
But -
One is still standing and it’s teeth and claws bite into the skin of his back, tear open the fabric protecting the flesh of his shoulder. The weight is suffocating, pressing down on his limbs until he is toppling over, tumbling, falling -
Down, down, down….
Into the rabbit hole you go...
His head cracks on something and his vision goes spotty. Everything aches and his weapon is still gripped in his hand, youma nowhere to be seen. Labyrinthite struggles to rise, head swimming and stars spotting his vision.
Before him, is the image of Nephthys surrounded by a white-gold light with an outstretched hand and that smile - oh he hates that smile.
“Don’t look at me like that Hvergelmir - “ he snaps, more sharp words like knives on his tongue but the world spins and his vision goes black.
”I need safe passage through the Bleeding Vein,” someone says and the voice is familiar but he cannot place it, vision fuzzy and gray as he tries to come to.
“What's a lady like you doing wanting to go through Bleeding Vein?” He can hear himself asking while he blinks and tries to orient himself.
“Well, a lady’s entitled to her secrets--” Everythings shifting, a whirl of smoke and fog that permeates his thoughts, makes thinking remembering more difficult…
There’s a chime of laughter, something bright and beautiful that he wishes he could bottle up and save for later, when the days are gray and the nights are lonely. Long, long strands of white - is there blue….purple…? - tickle his skin, chest exposed and pants discarded.
Oh, he’s smiling...when was the last time he smiled?
“You must leave,” the woman is telling him, gentle hands cupping his face, a thumb gliding across his mouth. “They are coming for you.”
And he laughs, not-Labyrinthite laughs like a man made of mischief and confidence. “Who comes?” He asks, one hand on a hip and the other sliding across a slender, exposed back.
“The Martians,” she answers, lips pressing against his forehead before she’s untangling herself and he’s left alone to collect his things.
“With you, I am one step ahead of the game,” he counters even as he’s gathering his things, turning his away from her and exposing his back, it’s rippling muscles and the tattoos he’s gotten as reminders of the people who are and will always remain important to him.
A rainbow rests in the center of his spine, beneath it, rests Denebola’s dragonfly, and on his left shoulder blade is Thrymr’s sigil painted artistically over the senshi’s colors. On his right shoulder is Neph’s sigil, something that does not get as much exposure as he would like but his uniform covers him from nearly head to toe.
His shirt is half way on, with Not-Labyrinthite pulling on his jacket before she is back, fingers pressing against the mark they both share. The look on her face is that gentle concern she always seems to wear and he looks up at her with confusion in his whiskey eyes.
“Troubled?” He asks, catching her hand in his and pressing his lips to her knuckles.
Her smile is strained and he can tell that there is so much she isn’t telling him, but he has learned to stop asking questions by now.
“You must go, we are not as far ahead in the moves as we thought.”
Ah, there it is.
“May we meet again,” he says in lieu of a good-bye, pressing lips to a cheek while the jacket slides over his shoulders.
The fog swirls, swallowing them both.
Slowly, golden eyes flutter open, the dark dim lighting of this part of the Rift some how too bright and harsh for his eyes. Labyrinthite’s head throbs, starting from a spot at the back of his head, where he cracked it against something, and pushing forward, pressing his brain against his temples, eyes.
This time, he manages to sit up, spine cracking as he shifts and his mouth is dusty, dry.
A fit of coughing gets the better of him and breathing is harder than he would like.
Somewhere, Labyrinthite can hear distant laughter and the too familiar caw of a bird while his shoulder bleeds. A low hiss slips from his lips when he presses his glove against the wound, fingers coming away sticky with red. It stings, but it is but a flesh wound. Minor.
He has survived worse.
Something shimmers in the edge of his senses and when he turns, he swears that he can see that flowing white dress, pooling at her feet with the colors of the universe, blues and purples and every shade and star of the universe at her feet - ready for her to welcome them home.
“I am not ready,” he snaps, voice hoarse and gravelly, words sounding grated and painful to his ears.
But when? The image asks, even when Labyrinthite turns his back on it - her.
“When death comes knocking,” he spits.
Labyrinthite doesn’t need to look behind him to know that the image is gone, that what he saw was not there and instead, trudges forward, bone staff grasped tightly in one hand. He does not heft the weapon up, slinging it over his shoulder as he might have but instead allows it to drag behind him, leaving a long line in the dirt, with his heart rattling about in his chest and his thoughts wild and astray.
May we meet again, he thinks, angry and bitter, the compulsive desire to turn around and look for the woman he knows isn’t there hot and strong in his veins, when there is something worth meeting.
Nuxaz
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Nuxaz
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Posted: Thu Mar 16, 2017 9:53 pm
Shifting Sands Word Count: 2,147
Days tick on, time inches forward, and Labyrinthite still doesn’t know how long he’s been in the Rift, if the ticking hands of his banishment have reached their end.
He wonders if the point of this punishment is to watch him crawl back on his belly to the General-Sovereigns and their Queen. His Queen, he supposes, though he doesn’t think he respects her as such.
(Labyrinthite vividly remembers bending his knee to the newly minted Queen, kneeling side by side with Alkaid, two of Metallia’s most loyal he thinks - he is biased of course - but that was different. That was before.)
But what is a knight without his queen and sovereign?
He mulls over the concept as he walks, bird skull scraping across the hard packed dirt and leaving a groove in it’s wake. This is a stretch of land, an expanse that seems to go for miles that he is familiar with. Or, that seems familiar like the Rift he grew up knowing. At least here, the nature of the Rift does not confuse him.
It does not rain and the area seems empty, abandoned, for the most part.
It’s peculiar, eerie, even though he can hear the cackling laughter of the raven that perpetually follows him.
His arm aches from the weight of his scythe and he has been lugging it behind him for an unknown amount of time, the grooves it leaves behind angry and deep. Red dirt stains the gray skull and looks to dull the blade, but the general knows it still houses it’s sharpness just like him.
Outwardly, he may look weary and defeated, but inside he is a fierce and determined creature who’s teeth gnaw at his skin and demand to be free.
I’m hungry, his monster cries, a coiling whisper that feels like smoke in his lung; suffocating and ashy. Why don’t you feed me? It asks as he trudges forward, shoulders and spine as straight as he can manage, though his shoulders hunch over anyway because he can’t quite find the strength to be as defiant as he wants.
“Because it is not time,” he snaps, feeling the beast inside him stir restlessly.
Timing is never right for you is it? His father’s voice laughs somewhere off to the left. He can see a shimmering shadow of what looks like Samuel. Unruly and rebellious. What a disappointment, the voice sneers.
“When have I ever not been to you?” He asks his father’s ghost, who’s form is creeping up on him, walking in his shadow.
The more important question is, when will you stop being one? His father laughs and his image bursts into a flock of birds that fade out.
Labyrinthite grits his teeth and forces himself to carry on. Even after death, Samuel manages to crawl beneath his skin and be an ever present reminder of all his failures.
A youma finds him. At first, he thinks it to be one of the wild dogs that assisted the large beetle when they were searching for Metallia’s treasures, but as it approaches he finds that it looks more like a hyena, if the creature was decaying. It’s face is hardly a face, more of a skull with decaying flesh that drips from it’s skeletal cheek. There are no eyes, just empty sockets and the ribcage is exposed, chest cavity filled with dust and the maw is twisted open in something manic and twisted.
“Reaaaaper,” the hyena greets all bared teeth and wild grins. “A little birdy told me you were lost,” it says, shaking its head and tail, feathers fluttering.
“I am not lost,” he spits, grip tightening around the bone staff when he stops walking and turns towards the youma, muscles tense and ready to react.
“Do you feel it calling you?” The hyena asks, laughing loud and maniac in a way that sends chills into his spine. “Because it calls you, us. It’s time to wake up, reaper! Wake up!” The creature is laughing, laughter so loud and resounding that it brings him to his knees.
Labyrinthite is paralyzed, rooted in place and yet -
The youma does not attack.
“There’s no rest for the truly wicked,” it says, before disappearing back into the shifting sands.
Once he can feel his limbs again, Labyrinthite falls forward catching his palms on the rough rock and sand mixture that he sits on. Impact sends a jarring spike of pain through his once-broken arm - it is healed but not enough - and the rest of his body careens forward.
He is weary, unable to push himself back to his feet and so he does the only thing he can. He rests.
Swirling fog wraps around his feet, crawls up his legs and pulls on his cloak. This dream is more vivid yet vaguer than the last one but, as they all have, it warps his uniform all the same. Dark blue fades to lavender and his cloak is gone replaced by the capelet that hangs off of one shoulder.
There’s sand everywhere, that’s undeniable, but he’s not resting on it no -
Heavy stacks of blankets have been laid out beneath a gazebo and he’s leaning back on them, elbows propping him up from behind as he looks up at the star speckled sky stretching out before them.
“Have you ever been to the Hydra circuit Kes?” He asks, fully aware that the answer is a no. Kestrel does not leave her wonder, she’s not like him. She cares for the trials of the place and the duties she seeks to uphold. She is better than he is, she wouldn’t abandon Zoji La the way he abandoned Crims.
“Where’s it at?” She says instead, wriggling on the blankets so that she’s closer.
Not-Labyrinthite points out area, a cluster of stars that burn brightly.
“Nah,” she says, almost wistfully. “I haven’t been anywhere but here and...Mars.” Her voice is softer, the change surprising enough that he turns, whiskey-eyes sad and questioning.
She’s telling him a story, but there’s a buzzing in his ear he can’t quite fliter out. It sounds like the rush of wind through sails and the adrenaline roar of his heart. There’s something about being born on Mars, never thinking that -
Oh, he can’t understand. What is she saying -
“I never thought I’d be here,” she admits, with a sadness he can’t stand in her voice.
“If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t be Kes,” he reminds her, arm slinking across her shoulder and pulling her against his chest. “I never wanted it, the title you know but - “
Fog pools around their blankets, seeping into his skin and clouding his vision. Everything is shifting; stop, wait, no --
"It's traditional to go through the trials before seeking an audience," a girl stammers.
There he is, with a s**t eating grin on his face. "That's what I did isn't it? I made it to the end I just--" He looked thoughtful, gloved hand running through dark hair. "I just skipped straight to the end, there are no rules about how you get to the oasis right?"
Always finding a way around the rules, wasn’t he?
"I mean…” The girl is clearly stumped, had no one done what he had before? No...of course not, he was always doing things in an unorthodox manner, tearing into new territories with desperate claws and biting teeth.
“...No, not technically, you just have to make it through the gates and into the courtyard to be received,” she concedes and Not-Labyrinthite is beaming at her.
His mouth is open, rebuttal on the tip of his tongue words dancing and ready but -
Ah, there is the fog. He welcomes it this time.
Labyrinthite wakes to a mouthful of sand. He sputters, coughing and tongue scraping against the roof of his mouth in a poor attempt to rid himself of the fine grains that litter it. Sitting up his hard with his bones creaking and aching as he pushes himself up and up until he’s on his knees. Bile churns in his stomach, crawling up his throat and spewing across the sand. It tastes like stomach acid and fruit.
Vomiting is never pleasant, nor does it leave a good taste in his mouth, but at least the sand has been expunged and he can be grateful for that. Another dry heavy or two before his body realizes there’s nothing left to come up and stops. His sides ache and his mouth tastes like sand and dirt and trash, but he wipes it with the back of his hand and climbs to his feet.
Keep moving forward, he instructs, knees bending when he reaches for the curving spinal staff. His stomach rumbles with upsetment, but he pushes forward anyway.
Once he thinks his stomach is settled enough he eats two more of the fruit he collected. The taste nearly makes him gag or want to vomit again as food does when it comes back up that way, but he forces it down because the juice is soothing against his raw throat and his stomach rumbling with hunger.
When he gets out, he’s swearing off sweet things if he can manage, though he suspects a diet of any kind will prove taxing after this.
At some point, he finds a bend in the road that leads upward, a stretch of something like a mountain coaxing and calling his name. Labyrinthite chooses not to think too much about it as his feet lead him forward, up and up.
Unlike the heat of the desert, this is something cold and biting like frost against the skin. Not often is he grateful for his many layers, as tattered and torn as some of his uniform is, but this is a time where he is. Cold bites at his shoulder, from where the youma’s claw had torn the fabric open, and it stings his face but, as always, he pushes on.
Up ahead he sees the shimmering image of a woman, cropped hair and goggles with a sour expression. His heart, which runs on blood and adrenaline and no emotions except -
No, it’s not -
But what if -
He’s hallucinating again.
You abandoned us, Fake-Zircon snaps at him, eyes angry and wild. She’s never been insubordinate before and that’s what tells him this isn’t real.
Labyrinthite does not answer the captain’s angry snarl and continues on his way.
You promised to protect me. To keep them from making me like her. You promised Zircon hisses, small hands balled into fists and her arms shake from her fury. She has no prosthetic and instead...something scaley stands in it’s place. They forced a youma to take the place of my leg. There’s so much bitterness in her voice and her image is shifting, melting into Suri instead of Zircon.
Now she looks frightened and there’s something wrong with her eyes.
You were gone and they took everything from me when I resisted. There’s scarring across her face and the image shifts and she’s -
General Zircon with her youma leg and -
Her cape is a youma with eyes that blink at him from beneath the way it drapes.
You left. This is your fault. Youmaed Zircon spits as he passes her, the cloak glaring in accusation.
“What else is new,” he sighs in return, a hint of defeat stretching across his shoulders as he continues to climb.
At the top of the hill - cliff, he realizes it’s a cliff that overhangs the area that he had just left, melting back into some sort of forest - there is a lone tree. Oak tree, to be specific, with thick and leafy branches that provide a wide birth of shade. If he were in Destiny City and not this prison, he would find it quaint in the way that college students who wanted to sit outside as they studied would. His hand is halfway to pressing against the trunk of the three when a snake drops from above and lunges at him.
His scythe flies from his hand, toppling over the edge of the cliff as Labyrinthite stumbles back. The snake is all skeleton with its snapping jaws and rattling tail.
“Reaaaaper,” it hisses and he thinks that if it had a tongue it would flicker out at him. “Down the hole you mussssst go.” His reaction time is slow, his body is still weary and Not-Zircon has managed to shake something within him, but he’s stumbling back, arms lifting automatically expecting a bite -
His heel goes over the edge.
No, no -
Labyrinthite falls with the bone snake grinning like a cheshire cat as it peers over the edge at him.
amitotic
for more zircon references
Posted: Thu Mar 23, 2017 10:53 pm
Believer Word Count: 5,022
The fall is long, with Labyrinthite having resigned himself to the fact that he’s going to hit and he’s going to hit the ground hard. Teleporting costs more energy than he has, he can’t stop the velocity that grows as he drops and he can barely shift enough to curl into himself for a smaller point of impact.
He does, however, reach for any part of the cliff that he can grab and slow him down. As expected, it goes poorly, jarring his arm out of socket, tearing up the fabric of his glove, and does little halting momentum.
When he hits the ground, there’s not a part of him that doesn’t feel every inch of impact.
Labyrinthite finds himself to be lucky in that nothing seems broken, even if his shoulder screams with pain that he bites back with a hiss. Managing to sit up partially on his knees, one arm braced against the ground, Labyrinthite’s head swims, vision spotty from the pain. In moving, the general realizes that his shoulder has dislocated and he will, at some point, have to push it back into place.
Something else distracts him.
Before him is what feels like a swirling oppressive, choking, swarm of chaos that permeates his skin and the air, making it hard to breath. Bright eyes of gold stare unblinkingly at the object half buried in the ground before him. Oppressive chaos aura nearly blinds him while compelling him forward, less wounded arm reaching, the other, more pained one, dragging him closer and he’s stretching, reaching -
Fingertips press against the hard, cold bone of the skull and something - power, he thinks - shooting through his arm and slamming into those slots of space between the bones of his spine. Labyrinthite is gasping, choking on the air he’s trying to breathe as too much strikes through him eyes widening even as his vision begins to fade out.
Electric, that’s what his body feels like and it’s so different than the last time he touched a greater youma fossil...he cannot keep his eyes open of his consciousness alive.
Labyrinthite fades out, hand dragging across the bone until his arm slaps against the dirt.
When he finally comes through, there’s a thrumming beneath his skin; that ever present chaos itch alive beneath his skin reminding him of who he is, General Labyrinthite, Knight of Metallia, and he feels stronger than he has in days. The rush of power and chaos and everything that wraps around his core feels him with a reviving rush that allows him to climb to his feet.
His shoulder throbs, still resting just out of place, but with his newfound strength he presses the flat of his palm against the joint and braces himself while he pushes it back into place. It hurts, of course it hurts, but with that dark and soothing energy swirling in his veins it’s nothing more than a dull ache, a lingering throb that he feels but is capable of ignoring.
There is a pop as the joint is forced back into place and Labyrinthite hisses in pain, but climbs to his feet anyway.
When he touches the skull again, he’s not flooded like he was before. Instead, he feels calmer than before, the pulse of his heart steady and serene. On the other side of the skull he can see white hair and the flutter of long, dark blue fabric.
“Adamantine?” He calls, brows furrowing as he attempts to peer around the large bird skull to no avail.
Alex, he can hear Regan’s soft voice call him from the other side. No, wait. It’s closer, inside the skull…? You promised you’d stay and you left. Emotions aren’t something his little star displays, but he can hear anger hot in her voice. What happened to being a ‘safe space’, she accuses and he can see the blue of her eyes in the darkness of the cavern created by bone and dust.
“I didn’t have a choice.” Labyrinthite tries to defend, voice hollow and empty. He knows that he’s lying even though there’s some truth to his statement. He had a choice and he chose to go against proper conduct, violated policy. He rebelled, in the way that only he knew how, and now he, and his loyal wolves, threaten to pay the price. “When I get back,” he starts, because there is no if anymore. He’s come too far to fail now. “Things will be different.”
He’s just not sure how yet.
You left us to suffer, his little senshi is snarling, imagine climbing across the rough, rocky ground to grasp at the smooth bone of the carved out eye hole. There are bruises on her face, much like the time he took her to the hospital, with blood trickling down her chin from her mouth.
“Yes,” he says, quietly. Reaching for the images face, he does his best to caress the cheek his fingers go right through, “and I have suffered in return.” Labyrinthite looks at the youma skull, flashes of it’s pieces burning hot and bright in his mind from when it’s power shifted through him. “But we will be stronger for it,” he states with utter confidence as she fades away.
Because what is strength without suffering?
It takes many days, four at least if he’s able to judge the time correctly, for him to dig the skull out but when he is done, he is triumphant and proud.
“Reaper,” the youma call to him, the snake in it’s tree above and the hyena off in the deserty distance. “Reaaaaper,” the raven’s chorus chirps, “it’s almost time to finish the puzzle!”
At this point, Labyrinthite is uncertain if completing the puzzle is key to his banishment or if merely managing to claw his way out of it is how he’s supposed to prove he’s worth enough to return. It doesn’t matter, he muses, because there’s blood on his hands and his skin is tainted with his sin. This is another test, that he thinks himself capable of passing.
There is a map in his head, transmitted there by the greater youma who calls and demands that he collect it’s parts and return it to him. Bring me to life once more and I will reward you General, it’s disembodied voice promises him, pressing it’s desires and needs against his shoulders until it rests in the base of his neck.
His path leads him away from the desert, into what appears to be an expanse of mountains shrouded in fog so thick that visibility is nearly impossible. Of all the areas he has travelled into, the general thinks this might be the most dangerous and he treats it as such. He is stronger than before, feeling more rested and capable than he has since he was first banished, from the gift bestowed upon him by the flush of chaotic power that chants, remember who you are along to the rhythm of his steadily beating heart.
“I am Chase Black,” he says beneath his breath, eyes bright and wild as he descends deeper into the foggy that swirls and threatens to wrap about his limbs and keep him locked in place. “Son of Samuel and Laralee Bradford.” His grip tightens on the spine of his blade, shoulder pulsing with that dull ache. “But first and foremost…” A shaky, audible breath as he spots movement out of the corner of his eye, the chatter of snapping claws loud in his ears as his heart beats louder in his chest. “I am General Labyrinthite of Metallia’s army.”
And what do you believe in Labyrinth? He can hear Alkaid’s gentle, soft voice of their teens asking. Who do you serve? What is your purpose? What guided path do you follow? Her image is bright against the fog, glowing cracks in her skin as bright as they would be back on her star. There is a ball of light in her hands, reminiscent of the time she led him to the edge of a cliff and made him jump.
He doesn’t fear her, but he knows her strength and how his own waxes and wanes.
“I believe in the cause. Metallia has never led me astray even as her servants do.” Labyrinthite answers with a low and raspy voice. He talks often, to his ghosts and to the youma that seem to track his every move for reasons he is incapable of understanding, but this is different. Here he must lay his conviction out before him. “I serve Metallia as our sovereign and the queen she has appointed. “
Alkaid’s image seems pleased with his answer, the painted smile on her lips obviously forced because no one forgets how to feel quite like the ascendant general.
I never meant to lead you down into the darkness, she sighs, pushing off a bog tree to stand before him, palm open as her ball of light shines brightly against her pale skin.
“We talk tandem paths, Kai,” Labyrinthite replies, ghost of a smirk on his lips as he looks into eyes shades darker than his own. “This was inevitable.”
Alkaid laughs, bursting into a flurry of shattering images; of which he thinks are shards of memories they once shared but they’re too fleeting for him to make much of anything. Left behind is her ball of light which darts just out of reach when he tries.
She is the senshi of guidance and hallucination or not, he trusts her not to lead him astray, so he follows the light deeper into the mist.
Something rises from the swamp when he finds the greater youma’s spine half submerged in murky, dangerous, waters. The creature is massive, covered in scales and...fish-like. The mouth opens and closes, loud gasping sounds emitting from it’s swollen mouth. It stares at him with unblinking eyes, approaching him at a slow pace, more of it’s body -
Oh. Guts rot out from beneath it’s belly, insect legs replace it’s lower half but still it manages to keep itself together as it climbs up up and out of swamp water. “Reap - Reaper” The fish-thing’s voice rasps, audible gasps between attempted words like breathing is too hard out of the comfort of it’s realm. “Do...you...hear the mu...music?”
Clapping claws and rattling bones shake and move and he can piece together the melody they create.
“Yes,” he says firmly, inching closer to the spine and ribs that he sees protruding from the water.
“Follow the white...rabbit….” The youma says, then sinks back into the bog.
Labyrinthite swallows, hair on his neck and arms standing on edge. Everything here is a complex puzzle and he’s being pushed in one direction and he wants to resists but can hear the greater youma’s voice in his head. Fix me and you shall be rewarded.
“I will do what I must,” he answers, uncertain if the creature even hears him.
This time, when he touches the youma fossil he does not blackout. Instead, he is imbued. Strengthened.
The spine is heavier than his scythe, which he has dismissed back into subspace because he cannot carry both. Dragging it behind him leaves deep grooves in the ground that fills with swamp water as he moves until there’s no more water left to cling to the soft dirt and it’s just a bare trickle that follows him out of the bog. Shake. Clap. Rattle. That’s the combination that he follows, because Alkaid’s light had faded when he found the spine. It seems foolish to trust the advice of a youma but...they haven’t led him astray yet.
Besides, what has he got to lose?
(Outside of his life, there’s not much more they can take from him. His wolves, perhaps, but he refuses to believe that they wouldn’t stand a fighting chance. )
Labyrinthite stops to rest, arms weary from hauling the spine along with him because it is large; four or five times the length of him. Wherever the melody has led him is cold, a chill seeping through his bog-damp clothing and into his skin. Chaos gives him strength, rejuvenates him but he is still human and his weary bones need rest.
Leaning up against the spine, Labyrinthite dozes.
When he wakes, Labyrinthite is startled, body coming alive in a jerk with his weapon in his hand before he can register where he is and what is going on. Before him is a youma. A bird skull makes up the face, feathers protruding from the base, with an exposed ribcage and skeletal arms that form claws at the end. Their spine meets what he think are hip bones and crab legs seem to protrude from bone. Of all the youma he’s seen up close and personal as of late, this is the weirdest one yet.
“Reaper,” their beak chatters, bright orange pupils loling in their eye sockets. “There is no time to rest, we’re late! We’re late!” They jump on their legs, claws snapping in his face. “Must hurry, we’re late!” The youma is turning away from him and Labyrinthite sighs, weapon fading back into subspace.
“Late for what?”
“Late for the execution.” It chirps, the shake, clap, and rattle starting up again.
Labyrinthite doesn’t understand, but he grips the spine and follows anyway.
The crab has led him back to the youma skull, which is confusing in itself because Labyrinthite does not recognize the path they have come from but here they are, with the skull waiting for it’s spine and ribs.
“You said there was a beheading,” the general states, eyeing the youma from the corner of his eye, wary and untrusting.
“Beheading?!” It shrieks, with a clattering jaw. “No. Re-heading!” It’s claws are urging him forward and it doesn’t take much to know that they want him to return the spine to it’s rightful place.
So he does, even if it takes him longer than he would like.
He feels stronger than he has in a long time, but he’s still weary.
There’s no rest for the wicked, his mother’s quiet voice says behind him and he feels a lump form in his throat. Wear your sins proudly, Chase, because you have suffered and you have become stronger for it.
He does not look behind him, because he cannot face his mother’s ghost when he can still feel the shards of her soul lodged in his throat, and busies his hands with pressing spine against skull.
The light is blinding.
The greater youma is not yet alive, too many pieces still missing, but it’s voice is loud in his head.
Go on Reaper, there’s still more for you to do.
Labyrinthite wants to spit defiantly in response.
There’s always more to do.
Finding the rest of the pieces isn’t as daunting, the impression of the youma and their winding map vibrant in his memory, as the first piece. Youma flicker in and out of his presence. Some attack and he fights for his life and for the respect he knows he’s re-earned. Others, they aid him. Why? He cannot say, but he is grateful.
Still, he is haunted by ghosts.
General Zircon and her youma cape, cloth wrapped around her eyes and a monster in place of a leg always seems to rattle him. You promised you’d stop this! Where were you! She likes to shriek at him.
It gets easier to ignore the more he continues, with the fluttering power of chaos from each fossil he retrieves keeping him grounded and strong.
What he sees is not real, he knows.
Alkaid always comes when he thinks he’s lost. There’s a ghost of a smile on her mouth, matching eyes staring at him with a fondness he thought she’d lost.
Anchoring, that’s what you do Labyrinth, she tells him as they walk in tandem, side by side, with her cape sweeping behind her. There are deeper bonds than just loyalty to the cause. You forge them and they will lead you.
That doesn’t sound much like something the ever loyal senshi would say to him, but he believes that there’s truth to it.
“We do not lead by fear,” he says to her, watching her as the walk. Her arms are folded behind her back, which is straight as always, and she looks ahead, focused on the goal.
She was always better at that.
No, we lead by loyalty, she agrees.
“I suppose now is a good of time as any to forge such things.” He sighs, thinking of the city and the home it once offered him. How many wonder where he’s been?
How many care?
Or better yet, who will still stand beside him if - when he returns?
The loyal will and if not, he will forge new bonds.
Everything is a test and he will be stronger for it.
The hind legs come with a hipbone and it’s one of the hardest pieces to carry. Everything about the beast is large, a creature so much larger than the man who only stands at six feet even. Labyrinthite must settle the bones against his back and pray to the deity he does not believe exists.
This piece has flesh that clings to it and Labyrinthite struggles to keep from wondering how it did not rot away like the rest of it. Then, he wonders if flesh will spring to life around the pieces he collects.
Only time will tell, he muses.
Were it not for the fruit he continues to eat, despite the things they make him see and the ghosts that lay upon his back, and the flush of power that flutters through his frame...Labyrinthite knows he would lack the strength needed for this. His bones ache, but he pushes on regardless.
Laughter rings brightly above him, an imaginary weight pressing skeleton deeper against his flesh. This is the s**t ya’ve been reduced to? Iris’ harsh and gruff voice rings out, hurts his ears. Figures, she snorts and Labyrinthite’s ankle scar stings as it’s prone to when he thinks of the rainbow senshi. Lookit where yer conviction gotcha.
“And look where your refusals left me.” He bites back. He’d begged her once upon a time, to help him break free of the chaos that wrapped tightly around his core and itched beneath his skin. “I asked you for help once and you rebuffed me.”
Labyrinthite hasn’t stopped moving forward, even though his legs feel like lead.
You ALREADY got a chance, ya ********’ piece of s**t!, Iris’ ghost taunts and he can feel her legs swinging from wherever she’s perched. Where’s yer conviction now?
A snarl rips from his throat, nails scratching against the bone he barely manages to hold on his shoulders. “Exactly where it ******** belong.” Serving Metallia hasn’t always done him many favors and it’s cost him both his parents but -
Labyrinthite thinks of Adamantine, the girl who is a kindred spirit. Of Zircon, with whom he has so much history with and so much more to build and create with. Of Dia, who’s nestled herself into bones and carved a space in his heart. Then, there’s Tourmaline who is wild and feisty and fiercely protective of those she finds near and dear. Somewhere, there is Aue, with his bright potential and so much he can offer to Labyrinthite and the sovereign he serves. Elsewhere lies a wolf who is volatile and unpredictable and who knows what has become of him in Labyrinthite’s absence.
But, who is to say what has become of them all these people that he sees slivers and shades of himself? These people who have engrained themselves into the person that makes up the once-reaper king of Metallia’s future.
Reaper, he is undeniably.
It is yet to be seen if he is worthy of any sort of kingly title.
Time ticks on, the steady flow of grains from one end of the hourglass into the other. How much time passes, he is uncertain. It is the ways of the Rift he muses, though he hates that he has no idea how many days, weeks, or months have passed. Labyrinthite doesn’t even know how long his banishment is supposed to last.
It doesn’t matter, once he finishes this task he’ll return to the surface world.
He was promised.
Another youma helps him, a mantis looking creature that’s been meshed into a tick that can adjust it’s size. There are snapping pincers that he would hate to have pierce his skin, but he can see the value of the creature.
“One more, reaper, one more!” Mantick chatters at him, prancing forward while he follows it through a winding road filled with rock towers and caverns. “S’the best piece!” Mantick insists.
When he finds it, Labyrinthite’s whiskey eyes widen in surprise. Of all the pieces he has found and collected, none of them are quite like this. Deep in the cavern he’s been lead to lays a living, beating organ - a heart. The way it pulses is sluggish at best, like a heart that’s barely holding on and is about to flatline but it glows softly with each beat.
The kickback when he touches this is nearly overwhelming, quite literally knocking the general off his feet and flat on his back. His body twitches, appears to seize for a moment, limbs thrashing against the stone concrete. A sharp pain settles in the base of his spine and his back arches, eyes fluttering.
Eventually, his body collapses and his consciousness fades.
In the haziness of his mind, the angels come for him.
Oh, ye of so little faith, one of them says. The others chime in with a chorus of don’t doubt it.
From where he lays, Labyrinthite must struggle to his feet. The familiar fog wraps around his feet and the angels circle him, hands pressed together in worship and their eyes blindfolded, but he can feel the weight of their gaze anyway. First, he gets to his knees, with a hand grasping at the air for the weapon that will not form.
There is no scythe staff to help him climb.
Victory is in your veins, the angel’s sing and their voices leave him shivering.
“I doubt that,” he says hoarsely, one foot before him now, as if he’s kneeling before a queen. Leaning forward, he rises.
Don’t doubt it, they sing again, voices twisting into a scream that leaves him wincing. Oh, ye of so little faith, the first one is saying again, head shaking as wings unfold behind them. A bird mask is on this one’s face, hands more like talons and if he could see their mouth, he thinks it would be sneering.
Victory is in your veins, you know.
Labyrinthite, for all his trials and his ability to overcome, cannot help but doubt it.
Rise, Reaper. They demand. Rise.
Labyrinthite sways on his feet, feeling small and gaunt and...frail. His cheeks are hollow and the bags beneath his eyes are dark and unforgiving. He turns in a small circle, taking in each and every one of the angels that stare at him. All of them are grotesque in some manner. One has an alligator maw, another has several eyes along the skin the robe exposes. This one has scales that crawl up and off their form, splitting open and exposing something rotting beneath the flesh.
We break you down, the bird one says and Labyrinthite interrupts it.
“To build me up. To make me a believer.” But he had always been a believer hadn’t he?
Once so firmly rooted in his faith. He has his faith, still, Labyrinthite is sure of that. Metallia has never been the one to lead him astray, even if the leaders she brings leave sour tastes in his mouth.
But is that not the point, that he understands even if he does not agree with the motive and moves?
Be the change you wish to see Reaper, the angels advise him before they disappear into smoke.
Labyrinthite wakes to his heart rattling in his chest. His starseed aches, hurts in a way reminiscent of that time Iris had attempted to change him. At first, he thinks the ghost pains have resurfaced, but quickly realizes that the buzz in his veins remind him of the adrenaline rush that comes with the taste of a starseed on his tongue.
Power he thinks as it flutters through his being. I am stronger for my suffering.
Laurelite sought to teach him a lesson and he has learned.
Gathering up the youma heart, Labyrinthite feels jittery like there was a something from his dream that he was missing or doesn’t understand. Already, a plan is forming in his head of what he wants to demand from the youma he is so close to finishing.
It’s chaotic energy is a steady pulse in his veins.
There are many things he must ask, demand, of it, but he is unafraid. The youma will listen, he has earned it’s favor and likely it’s respect.
He begins the long trek back to the skeleton.
When you’re at the bottom, you’ll follow anyone, that makes you feel like less of a failure. Labyrinthite thinks as he carries the heart back to the youma it belongs to. He cannot count how many times he has felt like he has had to climb his way out from the bottom of a pit.
This will be different.
Along the way, Labyrinthite sees the six-eyed raven. It sits among the stone trees that sprout from the ground. “General Labyrinthite,” it rasps, wings settling against it’s large body as it’s head twists and twists until it looks at him upside down. “It appears that you have solved the riddle.”
His gaze is level, face impassive as he stares back, heart strapped against his back by some makeshift veins he had found in his travels. “If the riddle is to how I return, then yes.” What had he said before? That he saw the potential?
Well, now he sees nothing but potential in the things that he wishes to do. Rise, angels had told him.
Rise he will.
“There is more, that awaits you,” his raven says, cryptic as always. It’s head snaps back into it’s proper place and it’s beak opens for a long and loud caw.
Something that looks like a rabbit surfaces from the trees.
“Follow the white rabbit, Reaper.”
Not for the first time, Labyrinthite thinks, what do I have to lose and follows the rabbit into the forest.
He is lead to a cavern that shines and sparkles like a treasure chest. When he touches the wall, which is made up of gems, he feels something dampening. Peculiar.
Flares of ever present youma auras dim when he steps in the cave, which puts every part of him on edge. “What’s this?” He mumbles allowed, breaking off a crystal for closer examination.
It does not take long for logic to catch up to him.
Energy dampeners, the good general thinks. Reasonably, he cannot carry many himself but…
Once the youma is reassembled -
Oh wonderful. Potentials continue to unfold before him and, for the first time since arriving, Labyrinthite feels rejuvenated and certain. No longer does he think if with the bare hints of disbelief that he will outlast his punishment.
What had that Skaikru girl said to him? Get knocked down, get back up.
Now isn’t that a motto that has defined his entire banishment? If he is capable of anything, it is getting back on his feet.
Everything is survivable.
The crystals will just make what he wishes to do more possible.
He takes one when he goes, returning to his original goal. There will be an opportunity to come back, he is certain.
Labyrinthite places the heart in the ribcage he had pulled from the bog. It pulse, strong and fierce, with enough force to push him back and for dust to fly around him.
His back slams against the cliff that he had fallen from, it aches from the reminder but Labyrinthite squares his shoulder and watches as the youma seems to stitch itself back together. Flesh appears to grow from nowhere over the bones, muscles spawning and knitting together against each limb he carefully carried across the vastness.
Well done Reaper, the youma’s old voice says and this time, it’s not just in his head. Legs push off the ground and the newly reconstructed creature stands.
Labyrinthite strides forward and the youma bends so that he may climb on it’s back.
“It’s time to remind Destiny City of what I’m capable of. ” A wicked grin is on his mouth as he stands on the youma’s back. “You can knock me down, but know I will get back up.” The creatures that have helped him are surfacing again, climbing atop the beast’s body and latching on to whatever they can.
This is a ride out they don’t want to miss.
What will you do now, Reaper? his mount asks, muscles shifting beneath it’s new skin.
“Remind the world that the dead are gone, and the living are hungry. I have been without the world for too long. It’s time to remind them that monsters exist in all skins.”
Because that’s what he is, a monster, isn’t he?
Nuxaz
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Nuxaz
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Posted: Fri Mar 24, 2017 1:24 pm
Homecoming Word Count: 612
It doesn’t take long for Labyrinthite and the youma hoard that had amassed to gather up enough crystals to dampen the rushing tide of chaotic aura that his youma mount radiated. They make baskets out of branches, leaves, and vines and fill them. Despite the flesh that has knitted itself together from old magic, there are enough pockets in the greater youma’s body to hold them.
What it cannot carry, the hoard does.
“Are you ready, Reaper?” The voice rattled out of the bone beak. Labyrinthite was standing on it’s back, bright eyes sweeping across everything they have done and collected, youma crawling through ribs and decayed flesh to find a hold.
“I have been ready for a long time,” he answered, voice even and shoulders squared. He held himself as he always did when he was preparing to go into battle. General Labyrinthite is a man who has been held the part of a soldier for so long, it’s impossible to carry himself any other way. In his hand is his scythe, the blade glistening sharply in the strange low lighting of the area, crystals pulsing beneath him with a dull pink glow, that casts his face into harsh shadows.
Beneath him, he could feel the hum of the youma in agreement. “We have been gone a long time,” his mount rasped.
“You longer than I,” he stated taking one last look before finding a place between it’s shoulders for a seat. Labyrinthite knows that most of the youma like this are dormant. Perhaps shattered as the bird had been or merely slumbering until the call of the general-sovereigns bade it to rise.
He wondered to what capacity their new Queen had to wake them.
“They do not miss the old gods, only the new ones.” The youma countered, shifting on it’s feet as it prepares for the travel from the Rift to the surface world.
“I am no god,” he replied bitterly. As far as the general is concerned, he is no more than one of Metallia’s most loyal. A knight and a blade, forged in the fires and licks of flame made of combat, sweat, and blood.
“A legend then?” The bird suggests and Labyrinthite’s mind flashed to a statement he’d said to himself so much earlier.
“Yes. I will take this lesson and turn it into a legend. A legacy that is mine.” His resolve is strong, unshakable as his faith.
Behind him, the youma chatter, voices warped as they sing, riiiiise Reaper.
Skaikru called him Reaper. The youma do too, chanting it behind him in loud overlapping voices. Reaaaaper Riiiiiises.
Yes, it’s time for the city to see the Reaper Rising.
Coming back to Destiny City proved to be more turbulent of a ride than the good general expected. The landing is what gets him however, with the youma he rode having difficulties with it’s legs. It had been so long, after all, without all of it’s parts that walking is not easy like it should be.
Some of the crystals are broken in the landing, few youma smattering into dust to their dismay. The main six, the ones that had aided him, survive without injury and are quick to lay the crystals around so that they may conduct their business even if most still rest in the belly of the large beast that brought him home.
He had crashed into a building, one of the power plants in the heart of the city.
Lights flickered out and wires sparked when power lines went down. Darkness stretched across the grid, but Labyrinthite was home.
