Difference between revisions of "PogoPogo"

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{{Usergoddess | 240px | avatar = PogoPogoGoddess.jpg | heroine = Ash Corde | motto =  ƒreedom is an illusion. | guild = The Forsakens Lament | rank = Matriarch | personality = Sociopathic  | town = Godville |  }}Imagine something for me. Close your eyes. Listen close. My voice is in your ears; let it lead you forward. Imagine.
  
{{Usergoddess | 240px | avatar = PogoPogoGoddess.jpg | heroine = Ash Corde | motto = Forget the light.| guild = The Forsakens Lament | rank = Hierarch | personality = Stubborn  | town = Godville |  }}The way I see it, there are three types of people in the world, with everyone fitting neatly into one category.  
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You're young again, or perhaps you always were. Your hands are small, chubby little things, grabbing on to anything in reach. Mouth aching from new teeth, you jam the strangest things between your lips, and your giggling is heaven itself to your parents. You are loved, and you are warm, swaddled in a blanket sewed by your own grandmother; you can picture her wizened hands, tangled in yarn, working the needle as she spins you a tale of heroes and dragons. You even have a younger sister, though her eyes never worked like yours do. The two of you share everything, and you tell her about the colors she's never been able to see. Hours are spent outside, in the sun, running about in the grasses. There's nothing you want more from life; you are content.
  
There are the "good" people, who make a serious effort to do no harm, heal their heroes and heroines constantly, and give out an insane number of hugs.
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The harsh, hacking cough is what changes it all. Joy seems to drain away from the faces of your parents when they look at you, hear you wheezing for air. You're suddenly bedridden, struggling for breath; when it abates, your family confines you to the house, and speak of you in hushed tones that promise a slow, painful doom. You are young, but you understand death. You understand that this cough is a lingering one. You know you're going to die. You don't want to die.
  
There are the "evil" people, ones like the Darkholder, the people who seek to take what they can and hold onto it as long as possible, no matter how much others have to suffer for it. They're obsessive, scheming, and clingy.
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Oh, how quietly need becomes apparent. It's almost unnoticeable, really, how quickly contentment can run sour. You catch yourself forgetting the kisses that your parents planted on your forehead, the way they used to smile at you, how you lit up their world. Now, you've become nothing more than a dark spot in their eyes, and even that will fade away. You don't want to fade away. You're not done. You're not even thirteen cycles, and you're dancing with death. This cannot be allowed.
  
And then there are the people who live somewhere in between, wondering what they did wrong.
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You fall in a different way than Nature had intended; you slip quietly into libraries and research Death's antics. The books are musty and breaking at the seams, but they sing to you. Steadily, you learn to sing back, and one day you find what you need. It's a ritual. Simple, isn't it? There's just some blood to spill, hearts to remove, lives to take. Easy. A knife is all it requires.
  
My name is PogoPogo.
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Your sister, you discover, is more loyal than you imagined. She volunteers to help you, to bring your sacrifices to you. She even plans their deaths to coincide with the times when your body is well enough to allow you to stand, something you thank her profusely for. It is far easier to end a life when you can move fluidly.
  
I lost my birth name long ago, in another lifetime. My parents died when I was young, in the village of my birth. The people there told me that the forest had killed them, that they had gone out hunting and been taken by the animals. I knew better. I'd seen the Shades. Ash has a different name for their kind; she calls them Midnight's Children. A fitting name, but a mouthful. I'd seen them at night, outside the door and windows, scything across the wall in sharp, slanting lines of shadow. They frightened me, their coin-like, silver eyes always watching through the glass, the figures of my nightmares. They came when I tried to fall asleep, but they never entered the house. Not once. Not until that day.
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The first kill is the hardest, of course, especially when the sacrifice begs for mercy. Sacrifice- when did you start to call your mother an it? When did you give up on pretending to care? Was it when the knife went down, carving a crimson line over her chest? Was it when you nailed the heart to the door of your house? Was it when your father ignored you for days after he saw it, left you for the taverns? When did you give up on feeling for them?
  
I didn't have a choice, or so I'd thought. I'd left my favored toy outside. They couldn't have it, they couldn't. It was my Pogo stick, my PogoPogo. I loved that thing. It was all I'd had left of my father, who had made it for me himself. Never mind that I had broken it years ago, and that the right-side handle dangled loose like a cut seam. I still cared deeply for it. And it was out, in the dark, with them. So I went.
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Your father's blood runs thinner, you discover, when you make your second offering. You don't know who you're offering it to, but the promise of immortality is what you know you'll receive in return. The promise of eternal life is something you crave desperately; the copper tang in your mouth when you cough is a reminder of that. Even your sister craves immortality, desiring to be beside you forevermore. She is loyal to the end, even when she plunges the knife into her heart and crumples to the ground. You are kind to her as she fades. You tell her about the color of the sky, and she leaves the world with a smile.  
  
At first, they were content with watching me as I crept across the porch, onto the dilapidated lawn. It was leaning against the far tree, wreathed in the dark. I had to strain to make it out. The lawn was grasping for my feet as I tentatively inched towards the toy, and the Shades began to writhe. Their forms began to slide over the grass, towards me, and my breath caught in my throat. They were going to kill me. They were going to kill me. They were going to kill me.
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It is your turn. The metal's so cold in your hands when you wipe the blade off, sharpen it, prepare it to be sheathed for the final time. Should you be afraid? All you notice is a desire to finish this, a subtle apathy. Your chest heaves with bitter coughing as you finish your preparations, hands shaking wildly as you position the knife over your chest. You hesitate.
  
So I ran. What else does a child do, when she is afraid? Some cry. I was no crier. I sprinted for the house. My PogoPogo would have to wait. The porch was so far away to small legs, legs half the size of an adult's. The porch was there, suddenly, the rim nearly catching my feet as I leapt over it, grabbed for the door, opened it and made to rush inside-
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You are twelve cycles and three seasons when you push the blade home and ascend into the power you've earned.
  
It grabbed me. It grabbed my shoulder and then my arm, and I wailed. I screamed as loud as I could. I almost howled. The thing clutched me, pushed me into the house as others latched on, until I was carried shrieking into the house by a mass of boiling shadow and silver. They swarmed, and they brought me to my bedroom, held me to the floor. I remember little of the night's next several hours, which was a blessing. I vaguely remember crying. What I remember next is Ash bursting into the room, two swords in hand. She was a stranger to me in that life, when we met. She could see, then. Her eyes were blue, like the sky. Like my own. She parted the dark with two shining blades, fighting until the Shades had dissipated. She knelt in front of me and shook me gently, and I looked at her.  
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Regret, of course, is a heavy weight to bear for most people; your sister certainly feels it when she wakes up in a temple. You, however- that's a different story. You don't mind it so much, push it aside. They'd distanced themselves from you anyways, you say to yourself. Your parents hadn't deserved life. Others, however, do not believe you when you try to explain this, condemn you. You change your story after they attack you. You tell those that ask that it's agony for you to remember. You force tears and anger. You pretend, but you know better. You don't care. You never cared. Your life is an act.
  
"Are you all right?" she demanded to know. "Did they hurt you?"
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You leave your sister soon after your new life began. She's useless to you, useless until you learn how you can use her. You come back to find that another had taken her as their own, claimed her mind and stored it away. You work quickly. You take over, push the other away. She becomes another pawn on the board, and you used her too.
  
I nodded, crying. My back is laced with the scars of the night, grey and thin against my skin. Yes, they'd hurt me. I bled that night still, my shirt plastered to my back and staining red-brown-black, the heavy tang of copper in the air.
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More pretending. You created your story- she's using you, you say, taking over your mind slowly and surely. In reality, you'd destroyed her easily, sucked the life out of her, made her your puppet. Finally, you had something. You control the shadows. Life is going well, especially now that your heroine is killing in your name, lending you more power, building a temple for you. It's never enough power, of course. Other gods will have to fall for you to gain that. They need to underestimate you. They need to see you as helpless, pathetic, and undecided.
  
"What's your name? Can you tell me your name?" she asked softly. I opened my mouth to tell her, and paused. I couldn't remember my name. It was gone. My best guess is, the Shades took it with them. Perhaps that is how they nourish themselves, with people's names. What would I call myself? The first thing that came to mind was the toy that lay broken outside, wrought from my father's worn hands. A way to remember him.
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You are not concerned. This will be easy. Pretending is your profession, after all. What's another lie?
 
 
"PogoPogo," I whispered. "My name is PogoPogo."
 
 
 
And that is when I truly began.
 

Revision as of 22:31, 22 February 2017

Deities of Godville
PogoPogo 
PogoPogoGoddess.jpg
Heroine Ash Corde
Personality Sociopathic
Motto ƒreedom is an illusion.
Favourite Town Godville
⚜️Guild 
The Forsakens Lament
Guild rank Matriarch

Imagine something for me. Close your eyes. Listen close. My voice is in your ears; let it lead you forward. Imagine.

You're young again, or perhaps you always were. Your hands are small, chubby little things, grabbing on to anything in reach. Mouth aching from new teeth, you jam the strangest things between your lips, and your giggling is heaven itself to your parents. You are loved, and you are warm, swaddled in a blanket sewed by your own grandmother; you can picture her wizened hands, tangled in yarn, working the needle as she spins you a tale of heroes and dragons. You even have a younger sister, though her eyes never worked like yours do. The two of you share everything, and you tell her about the colors she's never been able to see. Hours are spent outside, in the sun, running about in the grasses. There's nothing you want more from life; you are content.

The harsh, hacking cough is what changes it all. Joy seems to drain away from the faces of your parents when they look at you, hear you wheezing for air. You're suddenly bedridden, struggling for breath; when it abates, your family confines you to the house, and speak of you in hushed tones that promise a slow, painful doom. You are young, but you understand death. You understand that this cough is a lingering one. You know you're going to die. You don't want to die.

Oh, how quietly need becomes apparent. It's almost unnoticeable, really, how quickly contentment can run sour. You catch yourself forgetting the kisses that your parents planted on your forehead, the way they used to smile at you, how you lit up their world. Now, you've become nothing more than a dark spot in their eyes, and even that will fade away. You don't want to fade away. You're not done. You're not even thirteen cycles, and you're dancing with death. This cannot be allowed.

You fall in a different way than Nature had intended; you slip quietly into libraries and research Death's antics. The books are musty and breaking at the seams, but they sing to you. Steadily, you learn to sing back, and one day you find what you need. It's a ritual. Simple, isn't it? There's just some blood to spill, hearts to remove, lives to take. Easy. A knife is all it requires.

Your sister, you discover, is more loyal than you imagined. She volunteers to help you, to bring your sacrifices to you. She even plans their deaths to coincide with the times when your body is well enough to allow you to stand, something you thank her profusely for. It is far easier to end a life when you can move fluidly.

The first kill is the hardest, of course, especially when the sacrifice begs for mercy. Sacrifice- when did you start to call your mother an it? When did you give up on pretending to care? Was it when the knife went down, carving a crimson line over her chest? Was it when you nailed the heart to the door of your house? Was it when your father ignored you for days after he saw it, left you for the taverns? When did you give up on feeling for them?

Your father's blood runs thinner, you discover, when you make your second offering. You don't know who you're offering it to, but the promise of immortality is what you know you'll receive in return. The promise of eternal life is something you crave desperately; the copper tang in your mouth when you cough is a reminder of that. Even your sister craves immortality, desiring to be beside you forevermore. She is loyal to the end, even when she plunges the knife into her heart and crumples to the ground. You are kind to her as she fades. You tell her about the color of the sky, and she leaves the world with a smile.

It is your turn. The metal's so cold in your hands when you wipe the blade off, sharpen it, prepare it to be sheathed for the final time. Should you be afraid? All you notice is a desire to finish this, a subtle apathy. Your chest heaves with bitter coughing as you finish your preparations, hands shaking wildly as you position the knife over your chest. You hesitate.

You are twelve cycles and three seasons when you push the blade home and ascend into the power you've earned.

Regret, of course, is a heavy weight to bear for most people; your sister certainly feels it when she wakes up in a temple. You, however- that's a different story. You don't mind it so much, push it aside. They'd distanced themselves from you anyways, you say to yourself. Your parents hadn't deserved life. Others, however, do not believe you when you try to explain this, condemn you. You change your story after they attack you. You tell those that ask that it's agony for you to remember. You force tears and anger. You pretend, but you know better. You don't care. You never cared. Your life is an act.

You leave your sister soon after your new life began. She's useless to you, useless until you learn how you can use her. You come back to find that another had taken her as their own, claimed her mind and stored it away. You work quickly. You take over, push the other away. She becomes another pawn on the board, and you used her too.

More pretending. You created your story- she's using you, you say, taking over your mind slowly and surely. In reality, you'd destroyed her easily, sucked the life out of her, made her your puppet. Finally, you had something. You control the shadows. Life is going well, especially now that your heroine is killing in your name, lending you more power, building a temple for you. It's never enough power, of course. Other gods will have to fall for you to gain that. They need to underestimate you. They need to see you as helpless, pathetic, and undecided.

You are not concerned. This will be easy. Pretending is your profession, after all. What's another lie?