ᴋᴏʟᴛɪʀᴀ ·sᴜɴsʜɪɴᴇ· ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜᴡᴇᴀᴠᴇʀ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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futurology2016-05-05 07:09 pm
respired) wrote in futurology2016-05-05 07:09 pm
video; un: deathweaver; locked to the islanders
[ Koltira's standing in what seems to be some kind of schoolhouse theater. There's a projector beside him, largely untouched by the ravages of water or time, and a clear enough screen just ahead. The room itself is still in shambles; the floor is thick with debris and student paraphernalia--books, pens, ripped sheets of paper. Koltira taps his fingers on the projector, agitated.
Ashraf and Kida are nearby, looking on, though the frame does not show either of them fully. ]
I have something to show you.
[ His deep voice is low, still, dangerous. Tight with barely constrained rage. He presses a button on the projector, and turns his jewelry so that the screen fills the frame.
The following scene plays: ]
[ The view fades in as seen from the roof of this very building. Thick stormclouds gather off the coast of the island to the east, further darkening a dusk sky. They mount with an unnatural swiftness, and within minutes they've formed a solid wall across the sky as they advance. There are flashes of lightning throughout the clouds, but more eerie than that are the pinpricks of bright glowing fiery oranges and reds, like live magma cracking through its hardened shell. The storm begins to pound on the island, and view drops lower as whoever is recording drops into a crouch against driving wind and rains. Almost directly overhead those flaring, fiery colors form into the shape of a body, clear despite the swirl of clouds. Two fiery eyes peer down from among the chaos, and the feeling in them is clear: unspeakable fury.
The view jumps; it's now off of the roof and on the ground level, and furred arms reach to usher desperate, frantic people out of the doors of the building. These people look nothing like the Nalawi; they are much taller, their faces with a feline slant, all furred and striped. All of them are terrified, casting fast glances up at the sky. Screams begin as something large and dark with those same cracks of glowing orange slams down hard not far away. Things fly through the confused air, some of them alive and shrieking. The ground underfoot begins to shake and rumble; more of the panicking people are thrown from their feet, some buried under collapsing buildings.
Again, another cut. This time it seems to be at the shipyard toward the edge of the island. The viewer stands among a crowd, packed tight on the deck of a ship that's pulling away from the harbor. An enormous figure stands over the city, one leg planted in the middle of it, the other buried in the sea off of the land. The water is rising over the island, sweeping away bodies and homes alike. The figure is focused on raining down blows, until something suddenly snags its attention. Those two fiery eyes snap toward the viewer, then all at once its mass is turning, rushing for the escaping ship. Those destructive fists raise above its head, and the viewer turns to dive off of the edge of the ship. The recording goes black before it hits the water. ]
[ Watching this play out for a second time renews Koltira's already simmering fury. He grabs the projector's reel, and ice slowly spreads to cover the thing as he speaks. His lichfire eyes blaze; cold sparks hissing and dissipating into the crackling around him. When he opens his mouth, he bares fangs, and his voice is a horror: all echoes and gravel scraping against gravel, all deep, clawing, primal rage.
He knows destruction such as this. He lived it. He died during it. And, then as now, his people were utterly crushed. His kingdom lost. His life worse than taken--inverted, corrupted, perverted.
So he might be a little invested. ]
The gods of this world are a stain. They are an infection. Ryba is some tentacled glutton, and Nalanni is no more than a butcher.
[ By this point, the projector's reel is entirely coated in a thick, darkly shimmering layer of ice. Koltira seethes. He crushes the reel, metal and ice and film and all, in his fist; the thing snaps off, mangled beyond recognition, in his hand. ]
The way forward is clear. We will repair that ship. We will return to the main islands. We will find Nalanni, and she will answer for this slaughter.
[ He pauses, sneering. ]
Or I will, alone, if I must.
[ He turns to Kida and Ashraf, his eyes still ablaze, his muscles tense with fury. He draws Byfrost from his back. What little power he has left comes to the fore in full force. The runes on his sword glow dimly with unholy energy as he drives Byfrost into the ground, as the earth around it cracks and turns black.
The feed ends. ]
Ashraf and Kida are nearby, looking on, though the frame does not show either of them fully. ]
I have something to show you.
[ His deep voice is low, still, dangerous. Tight with barely constrained rage. He presses a button on the projector, and turns his jewelry so that the screen fills the frame.
The following scene plays: ]
[ The view fades in as seen from the roof of this very building. Thick stormclouds gather off the coast of the island to the east, further darkening a dusk sky. They mount with an unnatural swiftness, and within minutes they've formed a solid wall across the sky as they advance. There are flashes of lightning throughout the clouds, but more eerie than that are the pinpricks of bright glowing fiery oranges and reds, like live magma cracking through its hardened shell. The storm begins to pound on the island, and view drops lower as whoever is recording drops into a crouch against driving wind and rains. Almost directly overhead those flaring, fiery colors form into the shape of a body, clear despite the swirl of clouds. Two fiery eyes peer down from among the chaos, and the feeling in them is clear: unspeakable fury.
The view jumps; it's now off of the roof and on the ground level, and furred arms reach to usher desperate, frantic people out of the doors of the building. These people look nothing like the Nalawi; they are much taller, their faces with a feline slant, all furred and striped. All of them are terrified, casting fast glances up at the sky. Screams begin as something large and dark with those same cracks of glowing orange slams down hard not far away. Things fly through the confused air, some of them alive and shrieking. The ground underfoot begins to shake and rumble; more of the panicking people are thrown from their feet, some buried under collapsing buildings.
Again, another cut. This time it seems to be at the shipyard toward the edge of the island. The viewer stands among a crowd, packed tight on the deck of a ship that's pulling away from the harbor. An enormous figure stands over the city, one leg planted in the middle of it, the other buried in the sea off of the land. The water is rising over the island, sweeping away bodies and homes alike. The figure is focused on raining down blows, until something suddenly snags its attention. Those two fiery eyes snap toward the viewer, then all at once its mass is turning, rushing for the escaping ship. Those destructive fists raise above its head, and the viewer turns to dive off of the edge of the ship. The recording goes black before it hits the water. ]
[ Watching this play out for a second time renews Koltira's already simmering fury. He grabs the projector's reel, and ice slowly spreads to cover the thing as he speaks. His lichfire eyes blaze; cold sparks hissing and dissipating into the crackling around him. When he opens his mouth, he bares fangs, and his voice is a horror: all echoes and gravel scraping against gravel, all deep, clawing, primal rage.
He knows destruction such as this. He lived it. He died during it. And, then as now, his people were utterly crushed. His kingdom lost. His life worse than taken--inverted, corrupted, perverted.
So he might be a little invested. ]
The gods of this world are a stain. They are an infection. Ryba is some tentacled glutton, and Nalanni is no more than a butcher.
[ By this point, the projector's reel is entirely coated in a thick, darkly shimmering layer of ice. Koltira seethes. He crushes the reel, metal and ice and film and all, in his fist; the thing snaps off, mangled beyond recognition, in his hand. ]
The way forward is clear. We will repair that ship. We will return to the main islands. We will find Nalanni, and she will answer for this slaughter.
[ He pauses, sneering. ]
Or I will, alone, if I must.
[ He turns to Kida and Ashraf, his eyes still ablaze, his muscles tense with fury. He draws Byfrost from his back. What little power he has left comes to the fore in full force. The runes on his sword glow dimly with unholy energy as he drives Byfrost into the ground, as the earth around it cracks and turns black.
The feed ends. ]
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[ Or the undead. ]
Blood must answer for blood.
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[ VERY SIMPLE. ]
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...I don't want to fight you over this...
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Then do not. You need not be involved at all.
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What if I could talk to her first, maybe?? Or someone else does??
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Oh, they have reasons. For power, for revenge, for boredom. But a human's tantrum does not typically destroy entire civilizations.
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This isn't the point I'm trying to make though! My point is that we don't need anymore deaths!! Maybe she can be reasoned with!
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That is an optimistic outlook.
[ As he'd expect from Papyrus. ]
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[ The Dakal will be avenged. Through them, he will be avenged, twice over. ]
If you would not stand with me, that is your right.
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