The plains are on fire.

It has never really been his -style-, so to speak--flame has been Sigrd's department, but something in the Guardian craves the immediacy of destruction on a more tangible level than drenching. Only for a moment though and then does the sky open up into a flood, the sheer force of the water pouring down ripping chunks out of the vulnerable soil.

People didn’t expect erosion to be such a force for annihilation, but then again, it was rare that the full power of water angered was seen on land.

Hyuga watches the entire scene coolly, already distanced from it although he is the one allowing it to be channeled. Only the barest of winds reaches his form. It is already discorporate by the time the first of the floodwaters hit. He can close his eyes and feel the ravenous currents tug at him from far away even as they but flow through him.

It was a magnificent sensation.

And it was only reality given a certain spin on physical form, being but emotions burning themselves off in ways that would give hydrophobes screaming fits and other sleepers merely a poor night. Such was Nightmare.

Such was he.

Wasn’t that right?

Hyuga clenches a fist, watching the waves obey to whirl themselves into a waterpool’s shape.

His daughter.

Figures—dreamforms of their attached minds--slid screaming into the hungry maw and he only watched.

His wife.

Death by water.

Death by him.

I understand, father. I was not as important...

-No.-

And yes.

He can feel the satin tawniness of petals in his hand and he knows without looking that they will be the same color as the one which had shone so brilliantly in Yui's hair that one time in Shevat when she had turned and laughed and the setting sun had caught her smile and turned her shape to gold.

He opens his fingers. He lets it fall away.

The Guardian was not yet the type to assume that the spectre of Midori had been a conjured vision from his more vulnerable half—regardless of how much he’d been playing about in search of Raquel’s ghost. A sort of gift for Jesiah, as it were. If it –was- true that one could accidently attract the past from memory or from whatever esoteric dreaming death there was, then it was an advantage that could be turned to good use.

If it was not then it meant Midori was truly alive.

He’d have to find out, then—talk with the girl directly. A place could be found in Nightmare to have the discussion and keep Khiea safe from it. Hm. For a work that was to be entirely in his domain, he'd have to obey its rules to search for her.

Now. What -did- his daughter fear at nights?

The Guardian turns his eyes to the torrent which has now stained itself red. Here and there a limb could be seen waving above the foam before it was dragged back down to whatever lay in such a wait.

Water.

Death.

Him.

By Midori {OOC} on Tuesday, August 07, 2001 - 10:29 pm:

*TWITCH*