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+---- Thread: no voice to cry out -- entrance ritual + bracelet (/showthread.php?tid=9494)
no voice to cry out -- entrance ritual + bracelet - Splitvisage - 04-24-2019
[font=trebuchet ms]The bizarre liquid loomed in a cup in front of him, its vibrant shade of orange uncomfortably familiar.
"You must take it," the feline said. When Darksouls looked up at them with a raised brow, they cleared their throat and clarified, "It is necessary for the ritual."
The mere word "ritual" sent a chill down his spine, but his gaze did not waver. If this ritual was undertaken by every individual as the captain had said, then it obviously must not be a euphemism for sacrifice. Dangerous, maybe, but he was not going to a certain death.
"I will do this alone?" Darksouls asked, furrowing his brows. "I will not be followed?"
The feline nodded. "Yes, that's part of the ritual. No one will be there to help."
If the feline was lying, their face did not show it. It made sense that he would be doing this alone, anyway. Still, he watched the liquid for a few moments more- then, finally, leaned his head down and drank from it. It tasted sweet, like fruit and leaves blended together, albeit with a hint of salt.
Finishing the last of it, he shook his head, then turned and left for Haven Island. He ought to make haste.
--
The moon hung high, and he was still alone on the island, to the best of his knowledge.
His eyes lingered on the bridge. If someone came to attack him, it would either be by crossing the bridge, flying overhead, or swimming across the bay. If it was the latter two, there was nothing he could do, but he could at least watch out for an assault over land.
Exhaustion crept into his bones, and his eyelids grew heavier, until eventually they closed.
"Purevessel."
The voice startled him awake, and he turned his head. Before him, even taller than he was, stood a white reindeer with antlers stretching to the sky. The taller reindeer offered him a soft smile.
He felt warmth seep into his chest. "Father," he murmured, approaching and leaning his forehead against the other reindeer's shoulder. "I had a... nightmare." All the strife and suffering melted away, into the depths of the dream world. That was all it had been- a dream.
Father said nothing, and nor did he. Time passed in silence, just the way he liked it.
He felt happy.
He felt- pain, burning heat lancing across his sides as he was lifted into the air. He flailed at the restraints, panicked eyes zeroing in on Father- who looked on without lifting a hoof, brows furrowed. He thought he could see- tears? What for?
His movements stopped against his will. He internally ordered his limbs to move, yet they remained still. A force- oppressive, agonizing, hot- pressed steadily against his mind, scorching, blazing. His hooves twitched involuntarily, but he still could not move. His eyes caught the gleam of light off of the knife, its blade making a deliberate motion toward his throat.
He screamed, but no sound came out of his burning throat. Every screech, every cry, every yelp, all were intended to make the force let up, make Father see sense, make it all stop. His limbs twitched more and more, but each movement chafed against the red-hot chains across his body.
He took a deep breath through gritted teeth, then threw his head back and howled, his body finally breaking the chains and falling to the ground. Scrambling to get to his feet, he bolted, away from Father, away from the beasts pursuing him, away from the people screeching out as they were consumed.
He couldn't stay. He may have been meant to be a sacrifice, may have been meant to save people- but even if he was, it wouldn't have worked. His impure soul could not have halted the apocalypse. He had to leave, or he would die for nothing.
Was that selfish?
He staggered and collapsed, black ink seeping up from the ground to consume him. Another silent scream escaped his jaws, but he could not escape, the darkness overtaking him and swallowing him whole.
His head jerked, eyes snapping open.
The grass was lit by soft sunlight, a gentle breeze drifting by. His eyes wandered up to the sky, a dark blue melded with bright orange and split by pink clouds. The soft roar of the waves had resumed.
He looked back down at himself. His limbs were still intact. Cautiously getting to his feet, he glanced towards the water, then sauntered over to it and looked down. He looked the same as always, the scar splitting his face, the soft green eyes set in black fur.
Furrowing his brows, he walked over to the edge of the island and crossed the bridge.
Upon arriving back at camp, he leaned against a tree and lowered his head, trying to steady his shaky breathing. The vision from last night had felt real, as though time had been rewound and the memories replayed, distorted but still painful. He had hoped to escape, but maybe he never would. The force that had invaded his mind had left scars, that might never heal.
Would it have been better to let them sacrifice him, and find that the sacrifice was in vain, bringing destruction upon them all? Giving people false hope could never be moral, but then why did he feel so filthy inside for running away?
Setting his jaw, Darksouls trudged into the ship, his head hung low. Don't think about that. They- the Typhoon- wanted him to write something. If he could find a quill and some ink, and some paper, then sure. Never mind how he would get it in the bottle, though.
Going into one of the side rooms, he looked up enough to confirm that there was a desk with parchment and writing utensils on it. He walked over to it and picked up the quill with his teeth, then dipped it into ink and started writing.
I could not have saved them.
I could not resist it. It would have broken free and destroyed them all. I had fears, and regrets, and insecurities, that would have let it control me.
Maybe they found another solution. Or maybe they want me to join them in hell. They thought me their tool. He thought me a small price to pay.
I cannot. I am not. I am NOT. Did he love me? I do not know. But I will find my own purpose, one that has nothing to do with him.
Fighting back the mist building in his eyes, he turned his head away from the paper. What reason did he have to exist? If he was not who he was created to be, then who was he?
His gaze fell upon a small cylinder laying on the desk, a small bit of string clinging to it. Next to it, the rest of the string meandered across the desk. Useless for its intended purpose, but... he did need a bracelet, didn't he? Taking a deep breath, he glanced towards the door. "I need help," he said aloud. "I have a string in need of tying, and a message in need of... bottling."
/tl;dr: big boi needs help tying string into a bracelet, and bottling his message