Echoes of the Darkness: Twilight's Story

Twilight sadly trudged through the misty forest, deep within the heart of the wildlands around Jamaa.
Pit pat. Pit pat.
Glops of rain matted his black, unruly fur, and the insignia burned into the sides of his body glowed faintly. It streaked down his neck on both sides ending at his tail, and circles of the ethereal line were burned on his haunches, with a patch of fur inside the circle's berth.
Thunder rumbled, and a flash of lighting revealed his blood-shot eyes, stress lines and lips curled back in an eternal snarl. The wings sprouting from his back did little to shield his fur from the rain, flapping every once in a while.
Anybody who was as corrupt and disdainful as 99% of the world was would've thought of him as a demented kookoo, a madman, the legacy of insanity.
But he wasn't.
The stripe on his fur glowed a dull grey, emblazoned on his fur like a grey fish among slightly less grey fish. It didn't stand out from his black fur extraordinarily well, but the skin was still there.
To the touch, it felt cool yet vaguely ethereal, as if something alive were underneath dead tissue.
The stripe reflected Twilight's mood, flashing red for infuriation (or less serious states of violence-prone anger), flashing purple for melancholy or other states of sadness, flashing yellow or green for elation or enamor, and flashing blue for charged up power.
And of course, grey for neutral, even though he felt all of the above.
Or maybe his stripe's strange properties were too overridden to do much else.
Throughout all his years, though, Twilight'd never seen his stripe flash white.
White for serenity.
White for purity.
White for security.
White for light.
Twilight gazed up at the sky, where the grey clouds billowed in the howling, hungry wind. Lightning, certainly no guiding light, yet strangely soothing, flashed. The trees bent in the gale, bowing to the storm as their leaves were torn off violently.
He imagined the trees were taproots, or civilizations, rather, of the world, the leaves all organisms. They bowed to life, yet one by one their supporters were taken, claimed by disaster and time.
He watched silently as a large, weathered oak stripped of its phalanx of leaves, was snapped in half by the wind, collapsing and taking other trees down with it.
After that, Twilight found it even harder than before to take every step, despite lack of sentiment and unfettered strength.
"Every leaf on a tree is connected." Ledra had once told him. "Just like a bundle of sticks, together they are unconquerable."
She had snapped some single sticks in front of them for effect.
"But divided..." she continued. "They, once united, are feeble and weak.
As discord silently roared through the wilds, Twilight sadly reflected that the world could learn some lessons from Ledra.
More trees fell, their cries of death unheard and quickly silenced by the tempest around them. Yet, their cries added to the requiem of the storm.
Ledra, his friend and comrade, had recently decided to join him and assist his dream of a restored Corax - but then...
She was a fraud.
She was a fraud.
A fraud.
A two-faced, goody-two-shoes, petty liar.
Ledra, shapeshifter and DNA bender, had been a shell of memories inhabited by Shade, revived love of Greely.
A shell.
A shell of the real Ledra.
But details weren't important now, though Twilight, as the cavern ahead loomed aggressively, the hollow, sunken "eyes" just about the cave mouth... well, hollow and sunken.
Hollow and sunken.
Hollow and sunken.
Hollow and sunken.
Was this how Twilight was now? thought Twilight. I, hollow and sunken? A soulless robot?
The cliff face cut off the wilds and the path of damp mulch he was treading on. Countless blisters on his pads cried out in agony to him even more as home awaited.
Home.
Home.
Home.
But was home a haven for rest... or where your fears resided and bloomed?
A tear trickled down his gaunt cheek (from sadness, probably, he thought, but it could be elation) as he, hollow and ragged, stepped inside, awaiting reprimanding words by...

Xaia.
Xaia.
Xaia.
The words echoed in his ears as he buried his face in a pile of soiled rags. The odor nearly knocked him over, but right now he didn't mind.
Twilight lay on a pile of soiled rags, his head buried in his paws.
He had been scolded like an insolent kitten, a failure. A retard, for failing to halt Frost's quest to follow the path of Icirrus Chronos.
Retard.
Retard.
Retard.
He didn't like that word, retard. It was meant as a kindly term like "Special Ed" for the troubled who were jerks and cronies (again, two words Twilight didn't like). But gangs used them for anyone "stupid", not the naturally deficit. Used like a sword; a tool for hurt.
Deficit.
Deficit.
Deficit.
He looked at Screech, who was spread-eagled on a pile nearby, guffawing about nothing in particular. The ragged, cream fur of his annoying comrade was terribly soiled, yet his green eyes were pristine - pure madness.
Ledra would've washed Screech's fur thoroughly, and fussed over Twilight's, too. He closed his eyes and imagined her coarse tongue de-tangling his fur like a hi-quality comb.
Resentment burned inside him, fueled on his bittersweet memories of Ledra.
He remembered his sword of ventus energies, or rather, gathered and concentrated storm spirits. The electrifying powers of the one-bladed sword arcing in the air; the storm front that growled forward to intimidate and kill. The blue tint of his stripe; the cool Hyrestian sand flowing through his claws, the brisk ocean breeze, the immense powers including teleportation the sword granted. The sword's cool edge, the soft leather grip meant for wolf teeth - his teeth -, and glaring into the eyes of Frost, former (and current) comrade of Ledra, her iron gaze returning the notion. The thick forest behind him, Ledra emerging from the wild grass with those sorrowful eyes - so sorrowful.
And discovering from the sad Ledra hat, in fact, she was a copy of the real Ledra he'd come to know and love as her comrades and his comrades fought. Ledra becoming nothing but a core floating up into the heavens, Twilight distraught. Then, Frost made him unwillingly promise to dissolve the Renegades, his group consisting of Screech, Xaia and himself, and sent him away. He remembered his old leader, the brash Fang the lion, and another goon he barely remembered - Howl, maybe? How me and Screech were the sole survivors of the mysterious death of Fang and the other goon, then founded the Renegades and made Xaia the malevolent spirit their leader.
He bitterly glanced at the pebble altar, he, Ledra and Screech had constructed. Xaia (if you didn't know, pronounced SHIA) sat atop it, etheral mist bubbling from a crack in her base stone, eyes serenely closed - yet giving you the feeling that when they opened, they would radiate much power and evil.
Base.
Base.
Base.
Her green eyes had purple pupils, the green dots of tormented Coraxese spirits dancing in orbit around her mouth and eyes - all images that were real and fantasy at the same time floating on purple mist.
Mist.
Mist.
Mist.
The cave wasn't much better than the outdoors, with a stagnant air inside it (so stagnant, in fact, that Twilight had to flap his wings just to get the worst out of his nostrils), a damp temperature (brrrr), and the rain blew in briskly and dampened Twilight's demeanor and fur. His stripe glowed a sickly purple, one of the only lights, if not the only one, within their home not-so-sweet home. Otherwise, a shroud of darkness covered them, alit only by lightning flashes.
With much sadness, Twilight reflected on how he had gained the power of the ventus, and then lost it to Frost, he imagined Ledra and he holding paws and whispering to each other, as they used to on frightful nights. But as sadness took over, the warm feel of Ledra slowly faded to cold, bitter air.
Much to Twilight's sadness, Screech had taken all of the rags from Ledra's nest to join his own mound of soiled majesty. He winced as Screech made the holes of boxer shorts talk to each other in exceedingly squeaky voices.
After listening unwillingly to the exchange, he realized Screech wasn't doing his impression of famous animals, but rather, two wolves he knew very well.
He and Ledra.
The less ragged hole talked to the torn up hole, and the torn up hole replied over the feigned snores of the large shorts hole - obviously Screech.
Twilight reeled at the thought of Screech overhearing his conversations with Ledra at the peak of the moon - midnight, rather. Unlike whatever his name inferred, he and Ledra didn't favor twilight for chat.
Twilight.
Twilight.
Twilight.
His corona of purple steadily flared, but inside, Twilight felt shattered. He didn't even remember a time where he was mindlessly fighting for his ancestral home - the frigid yet mystifying Corax.
Corax, a snowy expanse north of lush Jamaa, a vivid land he resided in and loathed; Corax, a lost civilization long gone and discriminated.
A once-utopia of snow palaces and mystery.
The first memory he'd ever had was being a timid pup, training under Fang. He'd never know his parents, although he'd had a faint memory of his mother's fur and other pups - none with his odd insignia.
Parents.
Parents.
Parents.
He and Ledra could've been parents of young pups, given enough time and more peace... alongside the awkward presence of Ledra's wedding ring. She'd always insisted to keep on a reminder of her marriage to Drakus the crocodilian, no matter what could've happened. The Coraxese Renegades had been battered by outside forces, from Frost's circle of friends and comrades, the Jamaasian Heroes; to Ledra's aforementioned marriage to Drakus....
,,,which she had never seemed bothered about, despite Twilight's obvious hints.
It had seemed fishy when she'd been his love of his life.
Until he knew the truth
Truth.
Truth.
Truth.
Ledra was a fake, and her real self was stirring somewhere in the dark Duat.
He had little purpose.
He had little memory.
He was being used.
Twilight's senses suddenly jarred to a stop, plunging him into darkness, then sharpened drastically. He came to a perfect standstill in his thoughts, relaxing his tensed haunches. As the colors sharpened around him, he could see everything was bathed in a white light.
Then he saw his stripe was glowing so brightly, crisply white that he was astonished Xaia hadn't woken from her stupor at the tingle of light.
White for serenity.
White for purity.
White for security.
White for light.
White for understanding.
Xaia was using his ambition to revive his homeland.... but only for her own purposes. As easily as she could speak in her ancient, booming voice, she could discard him and Screech on the side of the road.
Yet, the thought didn't simmer the anger within him. Instead, it only led to his senses sharpening to the point of perfection. Dull colors became sharp, and he could see a mouse scuttling between the rocks.
Xaia was using him for her own desire.
Her own desire for blood.
Her own desire for carnage.
Her own desire for darkness.
Her own desire for power.
Twilight gazed into the dull, green eyes of Xaia with new understanding.
He would not be used.
He would not abuse.
He would follow his own ideals.
He would follow his own truth.
Not as one mind.
But as one individual.
He would not be grieving over Ledra.
He couldn't embrace his hatred for Frost Miranda Sagearium.
He couldn't hate the child of a phantom and Mira herself; not a demigod.
Not a child of hope, serenity, order and balance.
Not a child of the Great Heron, Mother Sky.
He would persevere for Ledra.
For himself.
For the world.
No longer would he oppose Frost's quest.
The quest to go through trials in the lush dimension of Hyrestia, to follow the path of Kyurem, Icirrus and Electro Chronos.
To prevent Apophis from molding Maximus Chronos, the ultimate god, from darkness, not light.
To prevent Chaos from combining Icirrus and Electro, two great dragons, into a dragon of darkness and malice that would sink Jamaa and its neighbors - and rebuild Apophis's underwater domain.
He would embrace the quest.
He silently smiled and thought:
"Thank you Ledra, not just for our time together, but for opening my eyes to true light."
No longer would he look upon her wedding ring with jealousy and distaste.
No longer would he ignore that taking her away from her husband was wrong.
No longer would he avert his eyes from the truth.
No longer would he put up with Xaia's tyranny.
He would be his own person.
Starting with taking down Xaia.
He was the matador.
The bull was Xaia.
Twilight could, and would, overcome any challenge.
Twilight began to devise a plan.