i don't think i ever uploaded my commission for @dinosaurcoolguns of our pf2e characters kytka and umbra. @felrija did an amazing job and i highly recommend you check her out!
[image desc: two women staring longingly at each other in the style of "lamia and the soldier" by john william waterhouse. kytka wears a long, flowy purple dress with gold accents; she has a gold pattern of lines on her face and arms. umbra has dark armor. her chest, midsection, and arms are visible; these are covered in a purple line pattern, which is also visible on her face. they're surrounded by flowers, and the image looks as though it's been painted on a canvas.]
it's kytka and umbra's anniversary both in real life (we rp'd them first hooking up in the early hours of 3/30/20) and in our current campaign (they hooked up late on the 11th of pharast (pf2e calendar), and last session was the 10th of pharast, so we'll start this session on the 11th).
that's the power of gay, babeyy! 7/7 best couple of all time, indisputable fact
Kytka watches Umbra leave. She always leaves first. It's easier for her this way; she doesn't have to watch Kytka disappear, replaced by a god that isn't quite her but is just similar enough for it to hurt.
It's easier for Kytka, too. This way she has a chance to cry.
Thousands of years and countless meet-ups later, and it still breaks her heart every time. Umbra disappears from sight and Kytka collapses to the ground, her vision immediately blurred by the tears that well up before she has time to try and temper her emotions.
She used to try to stop them, but she's long since realized the effort is pointless. Instead she waits to be certain Umbra has truly left their Oasis before she begins wailing, her muted sniffles quickly giving way to uncontrollable sobbing.
She cannot decide if this overwhelming influx of emotion every time she sees Umbra is a symptom of her remaining humanity or the influence of her divinity. Perhaps it's both. Shelyn has robbed her of her logic and practicality and whatever it was that would have stopped this before. Instead, all she has is love and the pain she feels every time she has to leave it behind.
Sometimes she is quick to recover, Shelyn peacefully stepping in and relieving her of the agony of humanity lying just out of reach. Today, though, Kytka is too strong. She feels so much of everything, and a familiar sensation wells up in her chest.
This is human. The panic that plagued her all her life is almost a welcome friend, something human she can wrestle with.
Fortunately, her mind does not turn to self-inflicted pain to fight the panic — that part of herself broke off long before. Instead, she calls forth the warmth, the light. Lines across her skin seem to rise from within, a familiar pattern beginning to glow a gentle silver, and more erratic lines forming golden webs and deep-set bruises across her skin. This is one thing Shelyn has left her, choosing not to assimilate this particular aesthetic choice.
Kytka looks up, blinking until she can see well enough to make out her reflection in a nearby mirror. The halo splayed across her skin recalls her relationship with Umbra — the silver lines manifested in imitation of Umbra's own markings, and the gold streaks and blotches of varying sizes and intensities momentos from their battles.
Sometimes this is when Shelyn takes over, her presence carried in by a moment of peace. Today though, Kytka is not ready to give in. These moments are rare, the ones where she gets to contemplate her position, and for good reason. Because all too often, the next emotion is anger.
The goddess of love is not meant to hate — and perhaps hate is a strong word for it. But Kytka is not fully the goddess of love, and in moments like this, she is furious. Furious at Shelyn for denying her the life she craves.
Furious at Umbra for refusing to join her, for taunting her with a humanity Kytka couldn't keep.
Furious at the world for demanding this of her, for needing her to become this.
Furious at that sense of responsibility and leadership that wouldn't let her live even before she ascended.
Furious at herself for not saying no. For giving this up.
For giving Umbra up.
The anger is always short-lived. Whatever Kytka may be now, hate is antithetical to what she is. Inevitably, she devolves into tears yet again.
This time, she mourns. She mourns the loss of what she was and what she had, of everything she denied herself by ascending. She mourns herself.
This is the reason she always cries, the thought process just out of reach when she begins tumbling through her emotions.
Every time Kytka leaves and Shelyn returns, she dies. Over and over and over. A painful immortality doomed to be repeated until the world ends again and she is finally relieved of duty.
She could end it now, refuse to return, simply let Shelyn keep control at all times. But she can't. Because whatever she is now is built on love, and this love is at the core of everything she is.
This is the longest it ever goes on. Kytka renews her pledge to the world, accepting another death, and Shelyn answers.
The lights fade, the form shifts, and Shelyn stares at herself in the mirror. She turns around, facing the tired woman standing before her. It is a luxury of godhood that she doesn't have to feel everything this fragment of her being suffers. She has long since learned she cannot comfort this one; she will disappear and be at peace until Shelyn calls upon her for help, or until her yearning is too strong and she demands to be released. Instead, Shelyn smiles softly. "Do you need anything, Kytka? Anything you wish me to know?"
The woman shakes her head weakly, tears still staining her glowing cheeks. Shelyn steps forward, enveloping her in a hug, and then the woman is gone.
Feeling just a tad wistful, Shelyn leaves the Oasis and returns to her duties.
DEATH is the first one. They always are. The people call for them first, their wails of pain a constant in every age. They remember the ages, too. Not well, perhaps, but the souls remember, and they talk to the souls.
Because of this, they find themself explaining the rules often. That balance of life they work so hard to maintain. The new gods never quite understand it. They feel this amplified power, but cannot handle the turmoil it causes within.
This is where they meet Shelyn again, weeping over a body. It doesn't surprise them, not really. It always depends on how the goddess arrives; sometimes she is less mortal, more divine, and she understands quicker.
Often, though, this is the case. Shelyn comes from close to the mortal heart, and she cannot leave their emotions behind. She sees only the loss of beauty, the missing life a dulled color in her canvas. Death sighs and walks closer. There is a job to be done, and this conversation will happen sooner or later. It is inevitable. It is always inevitable.
The goddess looks up as they approach, her tear-stained face perfect as always, even if it looks different once again. She looks down at the woman lying before her, an older human clothed in rainbow cloaks. Shelyn looks back to Death, understanding without question who the newcomer is. A flurry of emotions and questions cross her face, but she finally seems to land on one.
"What is the point of all this power if I cannot save them?"
This is the question they all ask, eventually. Coming to terms with the powers they do and don't have, and learning when to use them. It's especially difficult for those who heal — usually Sarenrae in particular. Shelyn seems especially broken about it this time, but she's always saddened by it.
Death approaches and kneels before Shelyn and the human. "What do you understand of death?" The question is soft, searching for an explanation.
Shelyn seems startled by the question. "I-I mean, I know what it is. An end of life. Everything dies, I –"
"No, little one. What of death?"
She is silent for a moment, desperately trying to figure out what the question means. Finally, she lets out an exasperated sigh. "I don't know! I mean, I know everyone can't live forever, but also… why not?" The goddess's voice rises in frustration, but she quickly reigns it in.
Death leans back and studies the goddess. Something is different, though they cannot name it yet. "You understand art, yes? Beauty?"
She nods.
"Are they not the more beautiful for their ending? It is the moment that renders art beautiful. A song must end. Art will be destroyed eventually, or at the very least you will leave it and no longer experience it. Yet the experience is notable because it is different. Unique. Because it ends." Shelyn remains quiet, but Death can see a dawning understanding, and they continue. "Life, too, is beautiful because it ends. There are moments between when it is lived, and it is kept precious because it is temporary." They lean forward now. "And death is beautiful, too. It is necessary. A balance. A reminder of why life is beautiful."
Shelyn glances down, a far-away look on her face. "Of course. I remember…"
Death frowns. She remembers? But the other gods never remember. The only ones with something to remember are…
"But I can heal them. Bring them back. They… I remember people doing it before."
Death stands up. "What is your name?" they ask, reaching out a hand to help the goddess to her feet.
Shelyn frowns, her brow furrowed in confusion. "I–I'm Shelyn, I…" Her voice trails off as she sees her own hand, smaller in Death's grasp and glowing again. The lines are not Shelyn's, and she realizes what the question is. "I'm Kytka," she says, pulling herself to her feet. Her voice seems different. Smaller again.
"You have taken up her mantle this time?"
Kytka nods, suddenly intimidated without the cocoon of godhood around her.
Death recognizes her now. The girl had been there, at the end, with her friends. There for the unmaking. And the remaking. So another god knows of an age before, they think to themself, somewhat bemused. They turn and gesture to the body. "Before, she could feel the souls. Can you?"
The only response is a weak nod.
"This is how you can tell. When the soul can return, it wants to. You will know. You will feel it. Otherwise…" Death reaches a hand out, and the soul of Molyn, first high priest of Shelyn in the eighth age, takes it. "Souls grow tired, little one. They return to creation, satisfied with their time in this age and ready for the next. The ones that stay too long grow restless, angry. They become twisted and bitter until they are beyond saving." Death turns back to the goddess. "This is my art. My gift to you, to all of you. I save the souls. I take them when they are ready. I ensure life is still beautiful."
It takes a long minute for Kytka to regain her voice. She swallows hard, choking back tears, and finally looks back up at Death. "Please," she said, her voice barely audible, "be kind to her." She gives a weak smile, and as Shelyn begins to return, her voice grows stronger, more sure. "She was so kind to me."
In the months, the years that follow, Kytka does what she can. She helps the people of Jhurat build a new civilization together. As much as she can, she tries to stand back and support. She heals and provides comfort. Working with the priests of Shelyn, she helps them reestablish the church, building an institution to serve the people again. With her friends, justice is served for the violence that plagued Jhurat in the months they were absent.
Her grandparents are banished, of course. Kytka helps them move, finds them somewhere safe to live out their days — a waypoint on a particularly dangerous stretch of ocean, somewhere they can provide haven to any who lose their way. She doesn't tell Araka when she visits.
When the citizens of Jhurat are established, Kytka leaves for the life she's always dreamed of. She and Umbra travel the world. Wherever she can, Kytka uses her talents for healing, and she brings news of the world at large. She finishes her record of Morytha and sends it to a library for safekeeping. Everywhere she goes, she takes notes, listening to stories and learning about people and the world.
It isn't long before her story begins to proceed her. People know who she is before she introduces herself. They bring her their problems, their illnesses. Kytka helps when she can, but there are some injuries only magic can heal.
And then, one day, her magic returns. A distraught mother pushes her child into Kytka's arms and begs her to heal him. Kytka's apologies fall on deaf ears — the mother is convinced she can do it. Wistfully, Kytka thinks of her magic. If she still had the Gift…
As the thought crosses her mind, a familiar sensation wells up within her. Warmth spreads from her chest to her hands, and golden lights dance across the infant for a moment before fading. Stunned, Kytka can only nod as the mother thanks her and takes back the baby.
The magic is slow to return and somewhat inconsistent at first, but it's definitely back. She talks to Griss about it, but they aren't quite sure what led to the change. Griss suggests perhaps it's belief other people have in Kytka, but she dismisses the suggestion as part of his new obsession with godhood.
The first time it happens, Kytka doesn't know what to make of it. She's drifting off to sleep, snuggled close to Umbra, when she hears crying. Sitting up, Kytka looks to Umbra with confusion, but her wife is already fast asleep, a faint smile on her face. The crying is still audible, though, and Kytka can make out a whispered "please" being repeated just over the sobs. Quietly slipping out of bed, she steps into the next room and looks around.
There's a girl there, curled against the wall. Her hair is tangled in front of her face, but her reddened complexion and puffy eyes are still visible when she lifts her head. Kytka quickly deduces the girl must be some sort of projection — an illusion or a message, some method of communication. Before she can contemplate what spell could be at work, the girl lets out another loud sob and buries her head in her hands.
Feeling helpless, Kytka takes a few steps forward. "Hello? Can I help you?" Her voice is calm and even, somehow managing to hide her unease.
Between sniffles and gasps for air, the girl manages to choke out a response. "Can't you *sniff* make them li- *sniff* like me?"
Oh.
Kytka sighs and slides down the wall, sitting down beside the girl. "What's your name?"
They talk for hours, and at the end of it, the girl seems encouraged. Emboldened. She stands with a look of determination on her face, ready to face the world again.
Turning back to Kytka, she nods. "Thank you."
Kytka smiles back. "Of course," she says softly, pushing herself to her feet. The girl turns and begins to fade from view, but before she's completely gone, Kytka reaches out a hand. "Wait!"
The girl turns back.
"How — how did you contact me?"
A look of confusion crosses the girl's face. "Don't you know?" she says as she disappears. "I prayed, and you answered."
After spending so long in the depths of Morytha, the sun is nearly blinding, even though her eyes are closed tight. Rolling over, Kytka pushes herself to her feet. She shields her eyes and blinks rapidly as the scene around her fades into view. In front of her is a small outcropping of rocks that nearly hides her and an expanse of sand leading up to greenery. And behind her…
Behind her is the ocean.
A real ocean.
The sound and smell is like nothing she imagined. Of course there'd been the ocean above the Cups, but it was small and artificial and wrong.
But this… this is something new.
After a few moments of awe, Kytka realizes the beach is full of people all struggling with the same awareness she faces. A quick glance reveals many of the people she knew in Jhurat: Azaria, Lymseia, Rom and Lula… more and more, all shakily getting their footing.
Her party is there too: Rowena, Griss, Araka. She remembers Roderick's death with a pang of sorrow.
And Umbra. Of course. There's a brief moment of panic before Kytka locates her girlfriend, but the relief that washes over her upon locating her láska is immediate.
Kytka takes a few steps forward and brushes sand off her hands. Her clothes are still soaked; she shivers, absentmindedly noting that she hasn't dried off yet.
She stops, frozen in sudden realization.
A quick attempt at deliberately focusing her magic on drying herself fails, and Kytka feels a new wave of cold wash over her. She spends nearly a minute trying to cast any spell she can think of, but to no avail. Even heal fails on a scratch on her arm.
For a moment she feels alone, abandoned. She's become so used to the magic that its absence burns a hole through her chest. After a moment of panic, though, she remembers a time before. Before she knew she had the Gift. The image of a quiet girl, timid and uncertain, comes to mind, and Kytka chuckles. She's been without magic before; though nervous about how much help she'll be without it, she knows she'll learn to live without magic once again.
The thought is comforting for only a moment before it reminds her of the future looming ahead. Uncertainty takes hold, and she can feel the panic begin to rise again. At least before, even if she had no control over her future, she knew what it held. Nothing is clear now. What happens to the people, the citizens of Jhurat? How do they survive? Could they build a better society than the one before? Would they need her?
And what of her family? Rom and Lula would have to answer for what they had done, but so would Seven Blossoms. And Araka would need help — both Arakas.
Just as the thoughts became too overwhelming, another sentence cut through: "What do you want, Kytka?" This time it isn't her voice, and Kytka's thoughts jump on the memory, desperate to forget the panic.
She finds herself back in that second night in Morytha so many months ago, the first time Umbra had revealed herself to Kytka. She remembers Umbra, pretending to be Hollow, grabbing her hand and holding it, asking Kytka if the action was too intimate (and Kytka's own lie that she didn't feel anything). She remembers the conversation later that night, when "Hollow" pushed Brek out of the room and Kytka confessed she was afraid of her magic, afraid of failing her responsibilities to her family and Jhurat; "Hollow" had encouraged her to think of herself — the first time she'd ever been told that. And she remembers when the disguise slipped, when Umbra's lights faded in and she said Kytka had caught her in a weak moment.
Kytka remembers later, after Brek went to bed. Umbra, vulnerable and just as lost as Kytka, asking her to choose. Kytka, choosing her again and again.
Umbra, scared of herself and convinced of her unworthiness, tagging along and helping the party day after day, even if it was in disguise. The paintings she'd gifted Kytka (with a twinge of mild sorrow she realizes the first is lost with Morytha), actually taking credit for them herself. Umbra, teasing and laughing. Umbra, kind and caring with a ferocity Kytka could understand, even when she disagreed. Umbra, scared and worried but never backing down.
And if she was all of them, if there'd never really been any other fragments…
She was Hollow, kind and joyful and passionate.
She was Blade, brave and protective and gentle.
She was Memory, smart and careful and curious.
She was No One, calm and attentive and simple.
She was Gloom, whom Kytka didn't know, but who seemed steady and caring and intuitive.
And Aeris… Umbra had said she remembered those parts, too, after her conversation with Control. But Kytka thought back to their last conversation before the end. When she knew. When Umbra had been so worried about Aeris, about how she had lost her own love. Umbra, selfless and concerned.
The future is uncertain, but Kytka has known what she wanted since the moment Umbra kissed her.
Taking a deep breath, Kytka emerges from behind the outcropping of rocks. The sun has half-dried her clothes and there's sand everywhere. She begins to walk towards Umbra, but after a few steps the excitement is too much and she begins to run, bounding across the sand. She skitters to a halt beside Umbra, who looks at her in surprise. Kytka is out of breath and disheveled and smiling so widely she feels like she'll burst and sunlight will pour out. Before Umbra can speak, Kytka grabs her hands and says three words: "Láska, marry me." It's a plea and a statement Kytka says without fear, sure of the answer already.
And then she says three more words — words she hasn't been able to say, fearing a promise she wasn't sure she could keep before now. Words she's meant with every choice and kiss and láska. Words she wants to say every day for the rest of forever.
She doesn't know how long she kneels there in the dark, but she knows she is alone. She feels it like a void of silence, a room without air. She calls up her lights, illuminating a barren, featureless stretch of dirt.
She watches the lights as they flicker across her skin.
First, the clean, organized lines of a pattern.
Then the other ones.
A thin line across her thumb.
Small lines across her arms. Flashes in the periphery of her vision tell her they're matched by tiny lines on her face.
A gash across her side.
A circle of teeth lines across her shoulder, her legs.
Little half-circles dotting her palms.
Larger lines, thick and jagged, cut horizontally across her chest and arms.
Eventually she loses track of the new lights; they blend in with the old. And some seem to start deeper, glowing below layers of skin.
As she watches, the lights beneath grow as she feels that burn again. It flows through her, uncomfortable and familiar, and she finds the strength to stand again.
She flies up, higher and higher, until her wings burn, and still the sky is no closer. That terrible moon hangs above her head, taunting her, until a perilous red storm overtakes it. Lightning illuminates the space around her as trees become cups become ruined buildings become Spires of stone. The wind whips her hair across her cheeks, stronger and stronger as it pulls her back. She fights until her strength fails her, and she is thrown backwards, tossed about in a swirling column of dust and debris and decay. Crimson flashes reveal nothing but her own hands scrabbling about for purchase.
Her breath is knocked out of her as she is dashed against the ground; the wave of pain that runs through her tells her that every bone in her body is broken.
Still, she knows she can't stop. Duty drives her onward. She pushes herself up, biting back the agony of her injuries.
In front of her stand her friends, beaten and bruises. Red lines glow across their skin. For a moment she thinks of the lines that cross her own skin, overlapping and joining until she is more light than not, but she knows this is different. Corruption. She can feel it, as if the sickness leaves a heavy smell, or a bitter taste of iron behind her teeth, or some sort of scratch beneath her skin, against the bones.
She can feel it all around them, hundreds of souls sullied with rot.
She reaches out a hand, clean as ever and shining with a brightness that hurts her eyes. The movement is steady; even now, she cannot allow herself to show how it pains her. She traces the usual movements, practically second nature, but they have no effect. No spells rush forth. The familiar burn of heal does not rush forward.
She has failed.
Shelyn does not answer her call.
Worse yet, she knows it is her fault. She was foolish, brazen. Acted when she should not have. The accusation is clear in the glares that bite into her.
And now they're all doomed.
She falls to her knees. Try as she might, the pain is too overwhelming, and she cannot push past any longer. Her tears sting where they fall.
She can tell when they walk away, though she doesn't raise her eyes to watch them leave. She doesn't deserve even that.
