Le Mère des Champignons

The Chaotic (Le Chaotique)

A/N: Ladies, Gents, and Others, welcome to the Confluence arc! This section of the story is going to be centered around Etho, rather than Grian (who we've been following for the past four chapters). This doesn't mean that the other characters mentioned previously aren't going to show up! It just means that the story is switching perspectives. 

Confluence: A crossing of two paths, i.e. the confluence of the rivers. 

Now, a note, I am quite unfamiliar with Etho's personality, unfortunately, compared to my knowledge/familiarity to Grian's. So, this arc may not be as accurate as I was shooting for, but who knows! It might be accurate after all! I'm super excited to experiment and hear what y'all think!

Salutations to our new beta-reader, Blue (She's been a huge help with writing this chapter :D ) and our other new members, Lolli and Mist (my beloved)! Welcome to Le Mereshrooms, m'lasses!

Get your stuffed animals, snuggle in with a blanket and a nice warm cup of tea (preferably strawberry green tea), and enjoy!

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Song: "Forest" by Takeshi Furukawa 

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A masked warrior stands at the top of a cliff, gazing out to the ocean. Waves summersault beneath him, crashing violently into the rocky face. A marine gale has a firm grip on the loose ends of his deep, forest green headband, which whips around his head, occasionally getting into his unprotected eyes.

His metal helmet, which covers most of his face, is entwined with the scent of the sea and of rust. The man's eyes are locked on the distant horizon, the sea sparkling with each wave galloping across the seemingly endless stretch of blue, drawing his gaze farther into the scene of water and sky. He isn't sure where one ended and the other began, although perhaps that's what makes it so intriguing.

In his left hand he grasps the shredded remains of his elytra, stained with gunpowder and rust, hanging from his grip like a tired, white flag. On its limp membranes are beautiful designs of the end peoples' tongue, dull and faded, but still shining in all their glory. The enchantment that once gleamed proudly upon the metal wings barely shines; with only a flicker radiating across them every-now-and-again to testify its once thriving existence. Broken leather straps sag from the wings, the material worn thin by age.

The warrior subconsciously strokes his thumb across the broken elytra, not lifting his glaze from the sea. He's so far away from home, with no way of returning.

Seagulls cry their cacophony, quarreling with each other over food and the sorts. They pay no attention to the tall, mask-clad warrior; it's as if he was a ghost to them and the surrounding biome.

He does not mind.

He's used to slinking back into the shadows, ever since speaking up would cost him his life.

His friends are either on the other side of the war, or are dead. He doesn't even know if anyone's survived this, or if anyone will survive. The warrior has always been cautious to not show his worry around other people; he's always been the steady rock others would, could, count on to anchor themselves to the world, but ever since he started running, his worries have begun to pile up.

Now, the warrior is a seething pot, angry and upset with not only the opposing side, but with himself.

Though he appears placid, he is far from calm. The sea is something that helps his boiling anxiety; it's ever shining waves soothe him in an almost hypnotic way. He always saw himself as the mediator of the fight, yet in the last few weeks he's been everything but that. A man of survival, his instincts taking control at any moment's notice.