Intro trappedsouls
Illyria was not pleased.
She'd risen, stumbling but once, and then regained her footing as her rain-soaked armor clung tightly to the small frame she was inhabiting. It could not be. It could not! She was still trapped within The Shell, even in death? Her hands scratched the surface of the pale tinged-blue skin and she screamed in frustration.
No. This was not the way the God-Kings were meant to live, meant to die. This was not what she had planned!
She'd fought in the Great Battle, allowing the tears that had fallen down her cheeks to spur her onto further violence in the wake of Wesley's death, but she had failed somehow. She, Illyria, had failed. She could understand why a pathetic mortal such as Winifred would have done so, but she was greater than them all! She should have been able, somehow, to return to her kingdom and relive the glory there once more. There, her powers would have been complete, her temple and army would still be intact, and she would not have been trapped forever in... this, this skin that wrapped around her and made her feel weak.
Looking about, she tried to see where she was now that she'd moved to another realm once more, but it was unfamiliar. Cold blue eyes scanned the ground, and she bent down to touch a gloved hand to the surface. Sand. Dust. The same as her temple had been when she had been reborn, and the pieces of her life had fallen through her fingers as Wesley had stood over her with a pathetic mortal weapon aimed at her. She'd at least had all of her powers at that point, but the similarities in locale did not assuage her fears. She stood once again, and moved, one foot before the other, catlike and awkward all at once, as she took in her new surroundings.
It was unlike any world she'd ever seen. Even the one without any shrimp.
This world, this place had an air to it that was old. The energies coming off the buildings around her in waves felt as ancient as she, yet there was something underlying. Something not quite pure, but not quite tainted. This realm was holding her captive as surely as The Shell still did, though. That much she was certain.
Illyria continued walking.
She'd risen, stumbling but once, and then regained her footing as her rain-soaked armor clung tightly to the small frame she was inhabiting. It could not be. It could not! She was still trapped within The Shell, even in death? Her hands scratched the surface of the pale tinged-blue skin and she screamed in frustration.
No. This was not the way the God-Kings were meant to live, meant to die. This was not what she had planned!
She'd fought in the Great Battle, allowing the tears that had fallen down her cheeks to spur her onto further violence in the wake of Wesley's death, but she had failed somehow. She, Illyria, had failed. She could understand why a pathetic mortal such as Winifred would have done so, but she was greater than them all! She should have been able, somehow, to return to her kingdom and relive the glory there once more. There, her powers would have been complete, her temple and army would still be intact, and she would not have been trapped forever in... this, this skin that wrapped around her and made her feel weak.
Looking about, she tried to see where she was now that she'd moved to another realm once more, but it was unfamiliar. Cold blue eyes scanned the ground, and she bent down to touch a gloved hand to the surface. Sand. Dust. The same as her temple had been when she had been reborn, and the pieces of her life had fallen through her fingers as Wesley had stood over her with a pathetic mortal weapon aimed at her. She'd at least had all of her powers at that point, but the similarities in locale did not assuage her fears. She stood once again, and moved, one foot before the other, catlike and awkward all at once, as she took in her new surroundings.
It was unlike any world she'd ever seen. Even the one without any shrimp.
This world, this place had an air to it that was old. The energies coming off the buildings around her in waves felt as ancient as she, yet there was something underlying. Something not quite pure, but not quite tainted. This realm was holding her captive as surely as The Shell still did, though. That much she was certain.
Illyria continued walking.