+- Beasts of Beyond (https://beastsofbeyond.com)
+-- Forum: Other (https://beastsofbeyond.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=7)
+--- Forum: Archived Animal Roleplay (https://beastsofbeyond.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=6)
+---- Forum: The Typhoon (https://beastsofbeyond.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=17)
+---- Thread: just like you 》new last name (/showthread.php?tid=13762)
just like you 》new last name - riftweaver - 01-11-2021
[align=center]
RIFTWEAVER
[W]iskerRIFTWEAVER
[div style="background-color:#242924;width:90%;max-height:200px;overflow: auto;text-align: justify; font-size: 8pt;color: white;"] "speech"
Life.
It was supposed to be precious. Life only lasted so long, and the idea was to make it worth it. To make the good outweigh the bad. To do more to correct the mistakes of those who had come before, hopefully enabling you to leave a better place being for those who came after. To find happiness, fall in love, make memories, so that when you sit on your death bed and look back, you can smile. So that when you're gone, those who knew you can cherish the memories you had made together. That was the entire point, right?
Or maybe that wasn't it, either. Maybe life wasn't just about the good. Maybe there wasn't a point at all. If that were true, then why push forward? Survival? To see future generations fill the void of those who had gone? What if the point wasn't to make memories at all, but just to make it to the end? Would that make things more hopeless, or less frightening? Probably not. No, most would likely say that such a nihilistic view was bound to lead to nothing but despair. That, if existence didn't matter much, there was no point to surviving.
In particular, this line of thinking brought up some interesting questions about the very state of life itself. Would anyone miss just one person? Would one death mean much at all? It likely wouldn't make a difference, really, but to answer this question fully, one has to take a step back. How many people existed on the island? A thousand? More? In just the main groups alone there was a couple hundred. Not to mention the fringe groups that popped up every once in a while. How many of those lives had been snuffed out without it making a difference?
What was the difference between them and him? Was it that he had family? The Roux family was extended, large and ever-expanding. How could he expect to not get drowned out in the sea of familial faces? With Brandyskies back, Riftweaver harbored particular doubts about how much of an impact his death would actually leave. Not that he was suicidal or anything. Far from it, in fact. He wanted to live, to survive. Even if he was only a half of a soul, he wanted to stay alive. The tiguar had survived this long, despite all the trials he'd endured.
Yet, the thought bounced around in his skull, echoing and ringing like a warning bell. The thought that he, as the seemingly lesser of two halves, did not belong here. That perhaps everyone would be happier without him here. They had experiences with Brandyskies. They'd watched him grow up, they had memories and conversations to look back on. Riftweaver was less the Roux they had loved before and more so an empty shell, a vestige of Brandyskies' past that danced around the edges of perhaps being the person his face was attached to. But he wasn't that person, never was.
Riftweaver was the parts of Brandyskies that the Roux had never wanted to surface. He was the cracks between his strong will. He was the shadowy bags under his determined eyes. The slipped thoughts of a tired child. The soft edges and plush colors, the moments of unclear thought. He held no memories of their shared past, no recollection of their childhood. He knew only to survive, to keep pushing forward. He had come from the sea with no memories but those of his time away, thrown instantly into war with the Coalition, from surviving the sea to just surviving.
But he was tired of being just a survivor. He was sick of just being the fragment of soul Brandyskies had left behind. Perhaps, once, they had been each other. But that was then, before the split, and this was now. The tiguar, now knowing the truth of where he had come from, had decided vehemently that he wasn't going anywhere. He'd heard whispers, people discussing whether the two should merge or not. It had become less about Rift and more about the ethics of keeping a soul split. Nobody could really tell the effects staying separate could possibly have.
Why risk it? Because, Riftweaver had gotten a taste of being his own person, of being separate. Life may have been rough, but he wasn't ready to throw in the towel and sacrifice his individual freedom. Life, he had concluded, was about personal choice and consequence. It was the choices you made every day that actually mattered, and he had to make the right choice for himself. A choice to bring him happiness, that wasn't just about survival. Perhaps it was the choices he had made in the past, or the choices he would make, that determined his final memory.
Either way it was looked at, Riftweaver was determined to make it clear that he and his twin were two different people. Their shared soul did not make them a shared person, not in his eyes. He was more than that. He was more than just a half. Perhaps his soul would never again be whole, but that didn't mean that he couldn't make others differentiate between the two. This decision, the debates internalized that lead to these realizations, were things that he doubted he would ever be able to share with anyone. They just wouldn't understand it, not really.
Riftweaver didn't need people to understand it. He didn't need to explain his reasoning, or perform a sermon on his thought process. It didn't matter if others understood his thoughts or feelings. It only mattered that he understood, and that he cared to make a difference in how he moved forward from here on out. His choice to make himself as clearly different from his twin as possible was one that only he could comprehend beyond a sympathetic level. The only one who could possibly understand what he was going through would be the twin in question, the original Brandyskies.
Or perhaps Brandy would tell him he was crazy, that making a big deal out of this was only going to cause more issues. Perhaps the other wouldn't understand it at all. He had been welcomed back with open arms, accepted by all without question upon the first memory to exit his mouth on that beach. Roxanne and everyone else had seemed overjoyed to have the other back, probably more so than they had been upon Riftweaver's return a month prior. He felt it, like a slap across the cheek. It had sent him reeling, feeling even lower than before.
Had Rosemary not stepped in with the bombshell of their split soul situation, Rift could only imagine what would have happened. Would he have been labeled an imposter, an enemy of those who had only hours prior been calling him family? He couldn't think about that anymore. It had almost been bad. Almost. Luckily, the healer had stepped in and given them a basic run down on what was going on. He couldn't be certain if others believed her, but they hadn't done anything about it. The idea of therapy had seemed to calm down their need for resolution, somewhat.
Yet, Riftweaver still felt uneasy. He felt as though he was attempting to live a life that wasn't his. Like he was out of place, stuck in a downward spiral of fearful confusion and identity loss. Who was he? Riftweaver Roux? Did the Roux name even belong to him? His soul, his body, had been born of the family, but his memories lived with the other half. So who was he really? What was his sense of self worth? Perhaps he just needed something to make him stand out, to embrace his particular feelings of being the odd man out.
That was how Riftweaver came to the decision to start his own family line. The Roux family would always be his, but now he would have one that was his. Something that couldn't be tarnished by his past. It was something that he had that wasn't given by the other half of his soul, wasn't brought about by Brandyskies prior to Riftweaver even existing. Noire. Noire was his, and his alone. Riftweaver Roux-Noire was a new start. A new beginning. Some day, his children would carry the name, wear it like a badge on their chest, and pass it down.
[1,401 words | 7,746 characters]
Life.
It was supposed to be precious. Life only lasted so long, and the idea was to make it worth it. To make the good outweigh the bad. To do more to correct the mistakes of those who had come before, hopefully enabling you to leave a better place being for those who came after. To find happiness, fall in love, make memories, so that when you sit on your death bed and look back, you can smile. So that when you're gone, those who knew you can cherish the memories you had made together. That was the entire point, right?
Or maybe that wasn't it, either. Maybe life wasn't just about the good. Maybe there wasn't a point at all. If that were true, then why push forward? Survival? To see future generations fill the void of those who had gone? What if the point wasn't to make memories at all, but just to make it to the end? Would that make things more hopeless, or less frightening? Probably not. No, most would likely say that such a nihilistic view was bound to lead to nothing but despair. That, if existence didn't matter much, there was no point to surviving.
In particular, this line of thinking brought up some interesting questions about the very state of life itself. Would anyone miss just one person? Would one death mean much at all? It likely wouldn't make a difference, really, but to answer this question fully, one has to take a step back. How many people existed on the island? A thousand? More? In just the main groups alone there was a couple hundred. Not to mention the fringe groups that popped up every once in a while. How many of those lives had been snuffed out without it making a difference?
What was the difference between them and him? Was it that he had family? The Roux family was extended, large and ever-expanding. How could he expect to not get drowned out in the sea of familial faces? With Brandyskies back, Riftweaver harbored particular doubts about how much of an impact his death would actually leave. Not that he was suicidal or anything. Far from it, in fact. He wanted to live, to survive. Even if he was only a half of a soul, he wanted to stay alive. The tiguar had survived this long, despite all the trials he'd endured.
Yet, the thought bounced around in his skull, echoing and ringing like a warning bell. The thought that he, as the seemingly lesser of two halves, did not belong here. That perhaps everyone would be happier without him here. They had experiences with Brandyskies. They'd watched him grow up, they had memories and conversations to look back on. Riftweaver was less the Roux they had loved before and more so an empty shell, a vestige of Brandyskies' past that danced around the edges of perhaps being the person his face was attached to. But he wasn't that person, never was.
Riftweaver was the parts of Brandyskies that the Roux had never wanted to surface. He was the cracks between his strong will. He was the shadowy bags under his determined eyes. The slipped thoughts of a tired child. The soft edges and plush colors, the moments of unclear thought. He held no memories of their shared past, no recollection of their childhood. He knew only to survive, to keep pushing forward. He had come from the sea with no memories but those of his time away, thrown instantly into war with the Coalition, from surviving the sea to just surviving.
But he was tired of being just a survivor. He was sick of just being the fragment of soul Brandyskies had left behind. Perhaps, once, they had been each other. But that was then, before the split, and this was now. The tiguar, now knowing the truth of where he had come from, had decided vehemently that he wasn't going anywhere. He'd heard whispers, people discussing whether the two should merge or not. It had become less about Rift and more about the ethics of keeping a soul split. Nobody could really tell the effects staying separate could possibly have.
Why risk it? Because, Riftweaver had gotten a taste of being his own person, of being separate. Life may have been rough, but he wasn't ready to throw in the towel and sacrifice his individual freedom. Life, he had concluded, was about personal choice and consequence. It was the choices you made every day that actually mattered, and he had to make the right choice for himself. A choice to bring him happiness, that wasn't just about survival. Perhaps it was the choices he had made in the past, or the choices he would make, that determined his final memory.
Either way it was looked at, Riftweaver was determined to make it clear that he and his twin were two different people. Their shared soul did not make them a shared person, not in his eyes. He was more than that. He was more than just a half. Perhaps his soul would never again be whole, but that didn't mean that he couldn't make others differentiate between the two. This decision, the debates internalized that lead to these realizations, were things that he doubted he would ever be able to share with anyone. They just wouldn't understand it, not really.
Riftweaver didn't need people to understand it. He didn't need to explain his reasoning, or perform a sermon on his thought process. It didn't matter if others understood his thoughts or feelings. It only mattered that he understood, and that he cared to make a difference in how he moved forward from here on out. His choice to make himself as clearly different from his twin as possible was one that only he could comprehend beyond a sympathetic level. The only one who could possibly understand what he was going through would be the twin in question, the original Brandyskies.
Or perhaps Brandy would tell him he was crazy, that making a big deal out of this was only going to cause more issues. Perhaps the other wouldn't understand it at all. He had been welcomed back with open arms, accepted by all without question upon the first memory to exit his mouth on that beach. Roxanne and everyone else had seemed overjoyed to have the other back, probably more so than they had been upon Riftweaver's return a month prior. He felt it, like a slap across the cheek. It had sent him reeling, feeling even lower than before.
Had Rosemary not stepped in with the bombshell of their split soul situation, Rift could only imagine what would have happened. Would he have been labeled an imposter, an enemy of those who had only hours prior been calling him family? He couldn't think about that anymore. It had almost been bad. Almost. Luckily, the healer had stepped in and given them a basic run down on what was going on. He couldn't be certain if others believed her, but they hadn't done anything about it. The idea of therapy had seemed to calm down their need for resolution, somewhat.
Yet, Riftweaver still felt uneasy. He felt as though he was attempting to live a life that wasn't his. Like he was out of place, stuck in a downward spiral of fearful confusion and identity loss. Who was he? Riftweaver Roux? Did the Roux name even belong to him? His soul, his body, had been born of the family, but his memories lived with the other half. So who was he really? What was his sense of self worth? Perhaps he just needed something to make him stand out, to embrace his particular feelings of being the odd man out.
That was how Riftweaver came to the decision to start his own family line. The Roux family would always be his, but now he would have one that was his. Something that couldn't be tarnished by his past. It was something that he had that wasn't given by the other half of his soul, wasn't brought about by Brandyskies prior to Riftweaver even existing. Noire. Noire was his, and his alone. Riftweaver Roux-Noire was a new start. A new beginning. Some day, his children would carry the name, wear it like a badge on their chest, and pass it down.
[1,401 words | 7,746 characters]