Hibiscuses.
Flowers that grew and withered in blinks, petals bright and smooth. Stalks sprouting prickly leaves, blooming flowers rising high, opening up to the sky itself, as if absorbing the sun. Tea plants, infused into essences and drinks, medical remedies alike lining stores. Weight loss, hair growth, immunity, relaxation. Hibiscuses, bright and flourishing, like spreading wings.
(Khorne, his mind informs him.)
Damionus was not one to mess with immortals, not one to dabble in their private affairs, their feelings much less. Bothersome most. Egotistical the rest.
And yet Hibiscus was neither. Vibrant, fierce in every way. Nature's own sign of poison branded upon their own colourful coating. Pinks, Reds, and Golds decorate the petals, the flush green stems curling down. An earthly knowledge, buried underneath all they should be.
Literal danger branded upon it's back, a knowledge hidden decades deep, Hibiscus rose again.
But that wasn't right; no, not quite. Dangerous, a brightly coloured warning. And yet, it did not fight. It rested, even it's own golden topping tossed away for the years that followed. Calm, a quiet.
In nature, in survival of the fittest, the bright warning shone through, animals taking second-guesses before taking a bite.
Yet above ground, in cities and kingdoms, in spiralling societies and high classes, a new brand was made. One of calming, one of dangerous relax. A remedy, a cure. Something turned domestic; something turned merciful.
(Someone.)
Glasses adorned Hibiscuses face. Bright pink warning adorned with red, the sign in the form of a cape draped carelessly over his back. Golden specks hid by the immortal’s neck, dangerous colours hiding the passive white button-up shirt that lay beneath. Coated and dripping, the seamless white layer covered carefully beneath.
Not abnormal. An easy sight, out of place and out of mind. Insignificant; passive.
Hibiscus, bright and looming. Natures signs of danger seemed dull, even on the new brand; a brand of retirement, of a pledge to stop the bloodshed thrown.
(Down down down the blood dripped, covering the floors in their own cape of red.)
"Damionus? Are you feeling okay?" A rough voice asked. Hibiscus, yes, right.
Damionus only nods, his eyes gazing up at the looming figure. Hibiscus looked as he always did, impeccably perfect. An intelligence and grace that he was known for nowadays. Almost gentle, almost kind.
The problem was not that Damionus could not see Hibiscus, no. He knows not to be fooled by perceptions, by simple glass charades and porcelain masks.
The problem was the simple opposite; the fact that he could see him. He saw far too much of the immortal in front of him, knew far too much to see him as he was now. Peaceful. Retired. Old, almost. Not that that would be possible for either of them.
No, charades took too much effort for Hibiscus. Damionus knew this fact well, even if he knew none other at all. Hibiscus finished charades decades ago, retiring to the cold tundra.
Hibiscus was alone. Alone, but not isolated. Not truly alone, really. Not ever.
For decades, millennia even, had Damionus known this fact. Before the retirement, before the final battle atop Stonestown Hollow. Charades were a game Hibiscus had left long behind him, a past forever to remain untold. Untouched by the society surrounding him, a society unknowing of the terrors that shrouded the god that they knew to be a blessing.
Stalking through snow, the two lumbered on.
No, the immortals' new nature was not so much known in the kill-or-be-killed world; only old tales, the flashes of bright, bright red.
(Maybe that’s how he should remember him, too)
Flowers that grew and withered in blinks, petals bright and smooth. Stalks sprouting prickly leaves, blooming flowers rising high, opening up to the sky itself, as if absorbing the sun. Tea plants, infused into essences and drinks, medical remedies alike lining stores. Weight loss, hair growth, immunity, relaxation. Hibiscuses, bright and flourishing, like spreading wings.
(Khorne, his mind informs him.)
Damionus was not one to mess with immortals, not one to dabble in their private affairs, their feelings much less. Bothersome most. Egotistical the rest.
And yet Hibiscus was neither. Vibrant, fierce in every way. Nature's own sign of poison branded upon their own colourful coating. Pinks, Reds, and Golds decorate the petals, the flush green stems curling down. An earthly knowledge, buried underneath all they should be.
Literal danger branded upon it's back, a knowledge hidden decades deep, Hibiscus rose again.
But that wasn't right; no, not quite. Dangerous, a brightly coloured warning. And yet, it did not fight. It rested, even it's own golden topping tossed away for the years that followed. Calm, a quiet.
In nature, in survival of the fittest, the bright warning shone through, animals taking second-guesses before taking a bite.
Yet above ground, in cities and kingdoms, in spiralling societies and high classes, a new brand was made. One of calming, one of dangerous relax. A remedy, a cure. Something turned domestic; something turned merciful.
(Someone.)
Glasses adorned Hibiscuses face. Bright pink warning adorned with red, the sign in the form of a cape draped carelessly over his back. Golden specks hid by the immortal’s neck, dangerous colours hiding the passive white button-up shirt that lay beneath. Coated and dripping, the seamless white layer covered carefully beneath.
Not abnormal. An easy sight, out of place and out of mind. Insignificant; passive.
Hibiscus, bright and looming. Natures signs of danger seemed dull, even on the new brand; a brand of retirement, of a pledge to stop the bloodshed thrown.
(Down down down the blood dripped, covering the floors in their own cape of red.)
"Damionus? Are you feeling okay?" A rough voice asked. Hibiscus, yes, right.
Damionus only nods, his eyes gazing up at the looming figure. Hibiscus looked as he always did, impeccably perfect. An intelligence and grace that he was known for nowadays. Almost gentle, almost kind.
The problem was not that Damionus could not see Hibiscus, no. He knows not to be fooled by perceptions, by simple glass charades and porcelain masks.
The problem was the simple opposite; the fact that he could see him. He saw far too much of the immortal in front of him, knew far too much to see him as he was now. Peaceful. Retired. Old, almost. Not that that would be possible for either of them.
No, charades took too much effort for Hibiscus. Damionus knew this fact well, even if he knew none other at all. Hibiscus finished charades decades ago, retiring to the cold tundra.
Hibiscus was alone. Alone, but not isolated. Not truly alone, really. Not ever.
For decades, millennia even, had Damionus known this fact. Before the retirement, before the final battle atop Stonestown Hollow. Charades were a game Hibiscus had left long behind him, a past forever to remain untold. Untouched by the society surrounding him, a society unknowing of the terrors that shrouded the god that they knew to be a blessing.
Stalking through snow, the two lumbered on.
No, the immortals' new nature was not so much known in the kill-or-be-killed world; only old tales, the flashes of bright, bright red.
(Maybe that’s how he should remember him, too)
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