amaranthh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
greenling) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2014-05-09 02:23 am
greenling) wrote in rainbowfic2014-05-09 02:23 am
Entry tags:
Famous #23
Name: Greenling
Story: Standalone
Colors: Famous #23 (I couldn't love a man so purely, even prophets forgave his crooked way)
Supplies and Styles: Photography, Graffiti (Mayday), Mosaic
Word Count: 367
Rating: PG-13-ish?
Warnings: None specifically.
Summary: The end of the world; but not the only one.
For a friend of mine who wants my take on how an Exalted/World of Darkness crossover game we were in might have ended.
Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated.
It was only so long they could hold out.
The sun rose and fell and stayed out of the sky. Bombs made from the vengeful dead fell on more vengeful and more powerful dead, ripping holes in the world. Rabid beastmen fought and fell on gravid monsters hatched in the heart of cities, and millions died, and more dragged into the abyss. Wonder died, and magic became a dark and feral thing.
That suited them, dark and feral themselves. It made them stronger.
One by one their Exalted allies deserted them, to rule the world of the Last Days or fight their own battles. One by one a group sprung up around them, tattered and angry, beaten but loyal.
They were the Apocalypse in human flesh. They were Lif and Lifthrasir. What else was there to be loyal to?
As the great black Wyrm finally rose to do battle with the last of Cain's brood, as the wizards went to war with themselves, as a thousand things from the shadows of the world tore it to cinders, they were already gone. Five great towers stood in an endless meadow; three pillars of the world and two they built, one living Valhalla, one grand Manse, and to hell with the worlds behind them.
It was not the first or the last time they had failed. The world would die again a thousand times before it would be saved. They were the Apocalypse; it could only be expected. They fought each other and loved each other and hated each other; they grew strong until their magic threatened to crack open, and made peace for the sake of the mortals. Their children would inherit the earth. Their children would be born, live, grow old, meet them again in another time. But time was a fiction in that place.
This time around, there was no great redemption, no tragedy, no prophecy, no hope, no fear. They went maying in their meadow, making daisy chains and writhing among the flowers like a pair of snakes- which of course, they were- for timeless millenia, until Mardukth came to claim them and the world was born.
The symbolism had never made any sense anyway.
Story: Standalone
Colors: Famous #23 (I couldn't love a man so purely, even prophets forgave his crooked way)
Supplies and Styles: Photography, Graffiti (Mayday), Mosaic
Word Count: 367
Rating: PG-13-ish?
Warnings: None specifically.
Summary: The end of the world; but not the only one.
For a friend of mine who wants my take on how an Exalted/World of Darkness crossover game we were in might have ended.
Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated.
It was only so long they could hold out.
The sun rose and fell and stayed out of the sky. Bombs made from the vengeful dead fell on more vengeful and more powerful dead, ripping holes in the world. Rabid beastmen fought and fell on gravid monsters hatched in the heart of cities, and millions died, and more dragged into the abyss. Wonder died, and magic became a dark and feral thing.
That suited them, dark and feral themselves. It made them stronger.
One by one their Exalted allies deserted them, to rule the world of the Last Days or fight their own battles. One by one a group sprung up around them, tattered and angry, beaten but loyal.
They were the Apocalypse in human flesh. They were Lif and Lifthrasir. What else was there to be loyal to?
As the great black Wyrm finally rose to do battle with the last of Cain's brood, as the wizards went to war with themselves, as a thousand things from the shadows of the world tore it to cinders, they were already gone. Five great towers stood in an endless meadow; three pillars of the world and two they built, one living Valhalla, one grand Manse, and to hell with the worlds behind them.
It was not the first or the last time they had failed. The world would die again a thousand times before it would be saved. They were the Apocalypse; it could only be expected. They fought each other and loved each other and hated each other; they grew strong until their magic threatened to crack open, and made peace for the sake of the mortals. Their children would inherit the earth. Their children would be born, live, grow old, meet them again in another time. But time was a fiction in that place.
This time around, there was no great redemption, no tragedy, no prophecy, no hope, no fear. They went maying in their meadow, making daisy chains and writhing among the flowers like a pair of snakes- which of course, they were- for timeless millenia, until Mardukth came to claim them and the world was born.
The symbolism had never made any sense anyway.