HERE IS THE HOUR THAT HAS FORGOTTEN THE MINUTE though the minnow remembers the stream.
These are decidedly not the sorts of trees that I was anticipating.
My nose crinkles up as I stare – with something like concern – at the first one I come across. It’s withered, and black, with a few dark green leaves hanging off its scraggly branches. It is not particularly ancient-looking, nor particularly lively, nor particularly large, nor particularly majestic and beautiful. I am sure that it still possesses considerable value (though I have never been a tree before, so I cannot say how it feels to be one), but I cannot help but feel somewhat disappointed by the sight of it, because I was somehow expecting something more, when I caught the sight of dark things rising like spires up towards the sky.
It is still wonderful, in the way that it is new – and I suppose that not all new things need to be beautiful anyways.
The ground feels sticky, here; my hooves sink down into the soil in a way that I do not find entirely comfortable. It’s almost wet, but I don’t see any water – not until I walk towards the rest of the trees, which stick up like needles from the soil ahead. Stunted, morose shrubs stick out from the soil at odd angles, and I feel some amount of admiration for their will to persist; their roots are half-uprooted and milk-white. Thick moss grows a coat on every rock I stumble upon, and most of the tree trunks, and well-grown, dark plants with long leaves that seem to be made of numerous individual leaves arch out over the path. Some of them stir away when I brush up against them, curling in on themselves with far more enthusiasm than I have ever seen a plant exhibit before. For a moment, I wonder if it thinks like I do, but I remember when I was a vine and dismiss the though.
White mushrooms grow in rings, here and there, and poke out from around roots and underneath rocks. I have the good sense not to eat them, though; and even if I didn’t, they smell moldy, like plant-rot.
A pale, grey substance hangs over the entire region – I can’t quite bring myself to call it a forest, even with the trees –, somewhat obscuring my vision of the way forward. I saw it before, the day I arrived, but I don’t know what it’s called; only that it smells wet (though everything in this place does), and it makes it a little bit harder to breathe. I press on regardless. The paths here are well-worn in a way that suggests this part of Terrastella is inhabited, though by who, I don’t know – I am not even sure that the paths were made by other equines.
(At home, you can follow deer-trails or elk-paths through the brush. It is a good way to get lost, intentionally or otherwise. I will not speak of several incidents a few months ago, where I, desperate for a break from my training (draconian as it has been in this lifetime), “accidentally” took an elk-path instead of the trail back to the temple after a hunt. If I spent the evening plucking sweet-apples from the boughs of fruit-heavy trees and chasing an owl who looked quite like my sister, rather than trying desperately to find my way back, then who would ever know?)
The ground sinks deeper the further I proceed, and the trees grow thicker; there is more green now, and it is still unfamiliar, because my forest is spun gold. These trees have trunks like thick mud and charcoal, and their leaves are not like emerald jewels but a green that is dull, subdued; they are small and frail, and they do not grow nearly tall enough to block out the sky. Still, they smell like the earth, and, when I look at them, in some confusing way, I am still put in mind of my father. (I know that he is still growing in the depths of the woods, a thousand times more elegant than any of this.)
But. This darkness is alluring – there is something to the sad heart of this place that makes me want to keep going.
I spill out onto the side of a lake, in a place where the ground is so wet that my hooves sink several inches into the frothing murk wherever I walk. The water is grey, but not a grey like the ocean; it is too listless for that, and, when I move to stand near the bank, the shallows look browner than anything. A few darting, silver fish disturb the surface, but they quickly disappear entirely, and I am left in a place that is almost unnervingly quiet. The grey haze hangs especially thick over the water – I feel as though I should be able to touch it, but, when I reach out my muzzle towards it, it seems to dissipate, and I feel nothing at all. I can see the sky above, though only through a layer of grey, but, when I left this morning, it seemed like the clouds were in preamble to storm anyways. (I have never seen a storm before; I have heard about rain, which still seems dubious to me, but what are even more unbelievable are mentions of roaring sounds and burning light that streaks across the sky in quick bursts.)
Normally, I would find a silent forest disturbing. Ominous, even – a sign that something had scared all the noisy things away. But I don’t know how loud this place should be (there is something to it that makes me feel as though it should always be subdued), and, as I stand, staring out at the grey-shrouded water, I feel strangely serene in a way that I’m not sure that I want to.
In a way I shouldn’t feel, at least. I have work ahead of me, and plenty of it – but there’s probably nothing wrong with stopping a moment to enjoy the newness of everything around me. It will only be new once, after all.
@Leonidas|| forest baby meetup party || "elegy," gregory orr "Speech!"
It was just a hop skip and a jump away. She dared not go to close to the court building itself. She feared the leaders who made it their home. But if she had been in the prairies anyway, she figured she might as well go admire the stone towers from a safe distance. She walked slowly along the edges, taking in the carvings on the walls. The symbolism of the night courts founder herself. moon cycles engraved in stone. Some pieces missing, having been weathered over the many years. Mostly though all the structures were immaculately intact. It was clear the people of the Night Court took pride in their home.
All the buildings in Novus... they were so different from home. both of them. In Elysium, they hadn't had buildings or structures. they slept in their lands. In Crucis, under the shade of the trees, where the only light came from the glowing fauna. In Lyrus, under the star-speckled skies of the desert, with towers of red rock overhead. In Herstial they had had buildings, in a more primitive sense. All made of woven willow, and later, sturdier oak pulled into the mix. They let moss and other fauna grow into them, solidifying the structures until they were once again a living breathing piece of the earth.
Here the stacked stones were so foreign. They held a sort of sophisticated power. She wondered if they would ever lose that sort of feeling for her. As she turned away from the walls to head back across the prairies she caught a glimpse of someone out f the corner of her eye. Turning she saw him fully, headed her way. A tall stallion, with gilded shoulders and a lustrous coat. She hoped he could see that she intended no malice to the court.
THE GREEN CANOPY'S NO SEA OR NET, BUT THAT'S ABSOLUTE -- confusion of thickets behind me; before me, open space.
I have discovered, through the kindness of some passing stranger, that an open, grassy space with “no or few trees” is called a field. I have also discovered that, although I suspect that I will always prefer the comfort of deep forests and amber leaves, there are certain virtues to fields.
My first night in Terrastella, I was so exhausted from – everything, to be honest – that I fell asleep without bothering to pay attention to the sky. That was, I am sure, a mistake. When travelers and priestesses told me stories of the sky, they also described the way that it changes throughout the day; sometimes, they even described the night. They told of a deep blue sky that is nearly black, punctuated with more little lights than you could ever possibly count and something that was supposedly large and round and white called a “moon.” I wasn’t sure how to imagine those little lights, so I thought of them like fireflies – like fireflies, lighting on the surface of some dark and deep lake.
On my second night in Terrastella, I am determined to see the sky at night. (When I tell this to the gentleman I ask for directions to a good place to look, he laughs, and he tells me that he hopes the weather is good for it; hard to see stars in a cloudy sky.) To my relief, today is not an especially cloudy day. (He tells me that storms are very common, near the sea, and I have to ask what a “see” was – only to find out that it is the same as an ocean, almost.)
With all that in mind – I pick my way through Terrastella, following his directions as best I can. (Seeing as how I don’t know what half of the landmarks he mentions are, the task is easier said than done.) It is fortunate that, when I am given a task that can be completed immediately, I tend to focus on it single-mindedly, for otherwise I fear that I would never have made it to the field before the sunset. This world is so utterly alien, so full of strange and fascinating things; I want to stop and examine each moss-covered stone and murky pool, each green-needled tree and dusky brown songbird. And the sea! The sea, the sea, the sea - I have been told that there are things that live in the sea that would devour me if I let them, but I am sure that I would not let them. (I would not let them easily, at least.) I want to go back down to the shore and explore more, soon. I am sure that there are plenty of wonderful things to find.
I haven’t forgotten my original task, of course. Find the heir. But it is so hard to focus! (I tell myself that I should get my bearings first, regardless; this is not, first and foremost, another symptom of childishness.)
I arrive at the fields at dusk, which is just as exciting as night; the sky becomes many strange colors when the sun (a concept I have only just become accustomed to) sets. It is peach-gold on the horizon, set against the darkness of clear, rolling hills, and, as night comes creeping in behind me, it grows deep, dark blue. The sky is almost entirely cloudless, save for a few wisps on the far horizon. I think that it is beautiful. I’ve seen the colors before, somewhat, filtered in a pastel orange onto the forest floor, but I could never see the sky itself for the leaves. (The more I see of the sky, the more I begin to understand the strange names of the nations on this island of “Novus.”) It’s enchanting, almost miraculous, and, for a moment, I find myself wondering what it looks like if you are well-accustomed to it. I wonder what the sky looks like to the heir - they must have grown up under it. I wonder if it is still miraculous. Surely it is, if they remember who they have been before.
The forest never changes, but it is always enchanting to me because I have been it. Understanding does not make something less wonderful; in any ways, it adds depths that others could only imagine. But perhaps our eternal autumn might feel like a trap, to someone who grew up in such an utterly temporal landscape. Perhaps they will not want to go home.
I settle in the grass atop a hill and look up, tucking my wings at my side as slight barriers against the chill. The wind is gentle tonight; it hums a melody against my ears, and it is familiar, but I can no longer mimic it. I don’t long for it, but it fills me with something warm.
Night comes. Night comes, and I don’t know how to describe it. I feel tears – wet and wind-chilled and sticky – dribbling from my eyes.
There are so many little lights, so many - some are brighter and some are darker, but they are all there, and they come in many more colors than I could ever imagine. They are not like fireflies at all; they are only like themselves. (Some things invite no comparison.) What I assume is the “moon” is a pale silver orb that hangs like a great face in the sky. I wonder what it is, what all the little lights are, why they are there, why they were made and why they exist. I wonder what it would feel like to be one of them.
Maybe I will be, in some lifetime.
@Maeve || what is this thing you call a "moon"? || "the cliff," gregory orr "Speech!"
Her stay at the night orders temple had done her well. She felt stronger then she had in a long time. Not her strongest - she feared she would never feel that strength again - but good. However it was fall, and when fall turned to winter.. well, that spelled trouble for those whose bodies rebelled against them. Nevertheless, now was good. and she wasn't going to waste it. She had heard tell that the night court was the best place to see the stars. Upon asking the acolytes, she was told that the Sideralis prairie was the place to be.
The timing was perfect. She was in the night court anyways, having left the temple. While she was backtracking ever so slightly, she couldn't pass up the opportunity. As she walked, she watched the sunset, not a cloud in the sky, the perfect canvas for the stippling of stars. She settled into the long grass, between two hills, her legs tucked neatly beneath her slender frame. and she watched as the constellations began to flicker into existence. How many times had she gone over those constellations? There were gaps though, those who had been put into the sky years ago... they didn't exist here. Their stars had flickered out of existence, and even if they hadn't... she didn't think you would be able to see them from Novus anyway.
The darkness in Delumine really was remarkable. Like nothing, she had ever seen before. even with the stars and moon above, it was as if the world had been swallowed by shadows. So dark... she almost missed the shadow on the horizon. She pricked her ears, listening, waiting. But did not move from where she lay. Hoping that maybe if she stayed there, she would go unseen.
BEDE WROTE HOW A SPARROW FLEW from dark through a lighted meadhall into dark again. / Tiny wing of your lungs - each beat a breath.
If I am being honest – I am not sure that I should be leaving Terrastella yet.
Not alone, at least. That’s done little to prevent me from leaving regardless; I’ve been granted the honor of a sacred task, and I must find the heir, and I have no desire to waste time. Besides. This world is beautiful, if strange, and I have lived two lifetimes as a knight and trained all of this one. I am well-capable of defending myself, should it come to it.
(And – it is probably selfish to say it, but I’ve never truly stretched my wings before. There were always trees above my head, and I could never break through them. In this place, there is nothing but endless, endless open sky. In some ways, it is horrifyingly vast, but in others, I feel strangely free, though I am not at all sure from what.)
From above, this new world is far less overwhelming. I think that it is because I can’t see the details of it, only the broad strokes, so, like an unkempt blade, the edge is blunted. When I am on the ground, every unfamiliar thing bites. I get caught on every little detail like a rabbit in a snare – I agonize over every murky puddle and evergreen tree. From up here, I can recognize that ridge of black-grey stones off in the distance as a mountain, but it doesn’t invite the vacant stare I’m sure that I’d be giving it, were I on the ground. (I still cannot fathom the simple changes of terrain in this land; the way some stones reach towards the sky, and sometimes the earth dips into tunnels. The spaces underground, in particular, invite my curiosity, and something like horror. There is something alluring about the depth,; something horrifying about how it could swallow you whole.)
I land when there are no longer trees. Not for miles. I don’t know what to call this rolling expanse, but I know that it feels clear and visible in a way that is almost threatening. For the first few days, the sky was a novelty. Now that I am becoming used to it, I am not so sure that it doesn’t sometimes feel like more of a threat; in the forest, there were always places to hide, and that dull, reasonable voice in the back of my head that is still a knight likes to remind me that Novus is something quite different.
Hearing the voice and listening two it are two different things – even though, when I don’t, I usually find myself regretting it.
The grass is high, here. Higher than any grass I’ve ever seen before (I hope that it’s actually grass; it smells a bit like it, slightly sweet), and pale, more of a tan than a lush green or a gold or even a dying brown. I can’t help but grin a little at the way it tickles my stomach and the downy feathers at the base of my wings when I brush through it.
What pulled me down to the ground here in particular is the great, cascading mass of brown things on the hillside in front of me. I’ve never seen anything quite like them, and, even though the-voice-in-the-back-of-my-head keeps telling me not to get any closer, I do anyways, until I can get a good look at the one at the front of the group.
The creature is…bulky, and covered with shaggy curls of brown fur. Its back rises to a considerable hump before its short neck, and its face is surrounded what is almost a small mane of black curls, which rise from its skull like hair and drip from its chin like a beard. It has a set of short charcoal horns that curve backwards from above its ears, and its large, black eyes seem to carve hollows in its face. Its tail is wispy and short, and it lashes behind it irritably, as though to stir away flies.
I am striding through the tall grass towards the strange creature before I can think much of it, my wings snapping into position at my side. It raises its head, chewing on a mouthful of grass that’s halfway sticking out and staring me dead in the eyes, and I tilt my head at it just a bit, not quite sure what to think. (It doesn’t seem quite sure what to think of me, either.) I move closer and closer, bridging the space between us until I’m only a few feet away from it. It stops chewing and snorts at me.
It isn’t a horse. It’s barely even horse-like. I’ve been plenty of things that aren’t horses, but I don’t feel any sort of kinship with them now, and I didn’t feel any sort of kinship with horses when I was them. I just felt like what I was at the time, so I know better than to expect this creature to feel anything particular for me, even on the off chance that it was a horse at some point or another, in one life or the next. Of course, knowing that doesn’t stop me from getting a little too close.
The creature snorts again, pawing at the ground, and, before I can think about it, charges at me.
I whirl, catching a face-full of chestnut hair in my hurry to turn, and I take off sprinting, putting my legs (which are, in my youthful state, near-obnoxiously long) to good use. I don’t feel like the creature should be faster than me, but, even though I wouldn’t dare risk a look back, I feel like I can hear its lurching, heavy hoof-beats gaining on me. I remember my wings almost too late, spreading them out belatedly and leaping into the air rather gracelessly in my stumbling rush – not quite quick enough to avoid a toss of the creature’s head, which catches my right hindquarter up against its horn. It hurts, a little. Mostly stings. With adrenaline pumping through my veins and my heartbeat so loud that it nearly drowns out the wind, I barely notice.
I land on the next hillside over, which is apparently enough to dissuade the creature from following me again. My wings lower themselves to my sides again; I notice that I’m shaking, but moreso from exertion than from fear. There is a shallow gash on my leg, which is dripping more blood than I feel like it deserves, but I’ve had worse.
I’ve had much worse, as a knight on the battlefield, but now that I’m not running, it does sting awfully badly…
I straighten, trying to quell my trembling and steady my heartbeat, and stare suspiciously at the creature, which is making its way back to the group. I’d thought that it had wise-looking eyes, like one of the older priestesses, or the ancient and strange creatures that lived in the deepest parts of the forest. I shake my hair out of my face, gritting my teeth.
Evidently, if it was wise, it did not see fit to share its wisdom with me.
creeping moss, and hard stone walls. It had taken her months to be able to navigate the winding corridors, the echoes had confused her. The voices that bounced around the walls, the click-clack of hooves on worn cobblestones. But now, two seasons later, Luvena walked the halls with ease. Now she knew that the bustling hooves and stone whispers came from the storage areas and kitchens, where the acolytes bustled around, tending to the building. The hallways void of any sound but her own hooves against the rock meant she had wandered to the monastery, where the monks came to worship their goddess. Caligo. She had learned while she was here... about the first- the gods. She hadn't known much of them before, stubbornly she had refused to learn. Unwilling to let go of her attachments to Elysium. She understood them now.
So she walked the corridors with purpose now, greeting some of the familiar healers and acolytes as she did. She had come to know some of them well in her time here. She didn't stop to talk to them for long though. She was looking for someone more important.
She shivered slightly as a cool breeze made its way through the cracked walls. The mountains were cooler than the lands of dusk, but not unbearably so. At least not this time of year. Her time with the night order had been good for her. Of course, her ribs still showed from her sides, and her coat was still lackluster. That was okay, she knew she would never be normal, she'd had her shot... and that... hadn't bee normal anyway. But, there was a shine to her eyes now, slight, but those who had seen them before would notice the difference. Her legs didn't shake when she walked. She knew it would only last so long, but it would be nice while it did. Afterall, she'd been on deaths doorstep a few months prior. It wasn't the first time, but it was scarier... the first time she was ready, even though in the end, she didn't need to be... this time she wasn't.
So she walked the corridors on blood-red hooves, on legs that didn't wobble, her cream tail trailing behind her. Sweeping the already dust-free floors. Taking in the silence of the monastery wing. Even the wind seemed to silence itself here. The birds sang no songs, and the wolves howled no laments. She wondered if that was Caligos doing. That solemn silence. Some spell, or blessing, cast over the temple, the same way the shadows had been cast over its disciples.
There was a joy to being in the mountains. So close to the stars, the sky. The air was cool and fresh. she thought she'd never get to feel it, that closeness. Years ago, a stranger, a saccharine stranger, had promised her a trip up the lunar mountains. What a load of shit (it appeared the habits of the older monks foul mouths had rubbed off on her). She never saw Ozy again. The closest she had ever gotten to those mountains was when she was gasping for air through the smoke in her lungs while lying in the foothills. She wondered now if it was a coincidence. If he had left, like so many others, without a word. Or if all the disappearances.... the souls gone without a trace, were the start of it, of the fall. Afterall... it was only a year later that the beach was devoured. But now, she stood in a temple in the mountains, and it was more then she could have dreamed.
So she walked the corridors, waltzed them, with dainty steps, and head held high. She stopped for a moment to watch the young monks, those in training, tussle with each other when they thought no one was looking. It reminded her of her children when they were little. Eremurus always wanted to roughhouse with Liatris, and reluctantly, he had always given in. She wondered how many scrapes and bruises she would treat and bandage come the evening. when the white light, turned to gold. Coming through the holes in the ceiling, peppering the floor with flecks of sunlight. How many blood stains the acolytes would scrub from the cobblestone to no avail.
She was finally snapped away from her thoughts by the sound of hoofbeats behind her. She turned around and smiled at the familiar figure. Just who she'd been looking for. "Tenebrae" she greeted with a smile. Her voice as soft and as gentle as ever. One thing that would never change was that voice. She demanded to be listened to, not just to be heard. "I was just on my way to see you! I'm glad you found me first." she approached from the other end of the hallway. "How are you?"
Posted by: August - 07-21-2020, 10:56 AM - Forum: Archives
- Replies (2)
august
This high in the Arma Mountains it is already winter. Snow dusts the peaks and doesn’t melt in the places where the shadows are long and the winds cold. The aspens are a dying flame, rusty red on their way to brown and gone. Between their pale slim trunks there is a line of tracks, and where the tracks cross the patches of snow they bloom scarlet with blood.
August isn’t going to die. That’s what he tells himself, at least, though the ravens that circle overhead clearly disagree; every time they call to each other in their hoarse voices his ears turn back and he bares his teeth. If he could fly, he would catch them and pluck their pinion feathers away. They’re calling the wolves to him, he knows, and every other predator with ears to hear and a belly that wants filling (and who in these mountains isn’t hungry for something?)
The palomino stumbles and rights himself with a hiss of pain. I am not going to die. Not here in these godforsaken mountains, and not from something so stupid as a snow griffin. He has to pause for a moment to breathe between clenched teeth before continuing on; the days are short, and the sky is already bruising with the threat of evening. His sword, still bloody, bumps against his side when he moves again. It’s reassuring, even if he’s not sure he’s strong enough to swing it again.
The adrenaline is beginning to wear off, and pain is eager to take its place. He needs a willow tree, or the witch’s hut. There are claw marks scoring his shoulders and haunches, all still weeping blood; there is a sizable chunk of skin missing from his foreleg, and while (thank Caligo) it has missed anything as vital as a ligament or artery it will not stop bleeding, no matter how much moss he presses to it. At least the griffin is dead.
When he looks back over his shoulder his heart sinks. He’s barely made it half a mile - he can still see the top of the copse of trees where he was attacked. He needs to wash the blood off so he’s not advertising what a walking feast he is. He needs to get to a lower altitude, maybe Vitreus Lake, where someone stands a chance of finding him.
Instead he finds himself sagging against a tree, painting for air, leaving scarlet smeared against its bark. I am not going to die. Instead he staggers on a few more feeble steps, light-headed and faint. I am not going to die. Maybe if he just could lie down for a minute - the snow would feel so good against his skin -
Overhead, the ravens scream again, and the stallion’s head jerks up. He continues walking, only it is more of a stumble. I am not going to die. But even in his head, the words sound unconvinced.
we drink the poison our minds pour for us and wonder why we feel so sick
SHE'S A WATERFALL PLUNGING OVER THE LIP OF A CLIFF: white foam shattering on the rocks below.
I am not falling, exactly.
I don’t even feel like I am moving. In those strange, slow moments between one realm and the next, I feel incorporeal, and, although I have always been assured of the knowledge and skill of the priestesses, I cannot help but wonder if they have made a mistake; it feels like I have died another death, shed another skin, and become something burning-bright and golden. Like sunrays. Like the sunrays that barely make it through the thick weave of branches that seem to block out the entire sky when you walk through the forest of my homeland, and, for a brief, fanciful moment, I find myself thinking that, if I have perished, it will be wonderful to be a warm, bright sunray-
And then I am out of that comfortable brightness; it falls off my shoulders like a veil. I am standing…somewhere incomprehensible.
This world is not golden. It is not painted in brilliant shades of red-orange and pale yellow; the light is not like honey. There are no trees anywhere to be seen, only dark crags of rock, awash with scrappy, dull green grass that browns and dies near the edges. The air does not smell of sweet things and spices – instead, it smells of something utterly unfamiliar, and, as the wind whips against my face, the scent makes my nose burn. I gag, trying to make sense of it, and shake my head.
Nothing prepares me for what I see when I look up.
I have never seen the sky before. At home, the branches in the canopy grow so thick that they block out every last inch of it, though the priestesses have always insisted that it exists above them. I have always heard that it is blue, but it is grey, and it looks…rough, somehow, like there are layers to it. They resemble cotton, sometimes, and smudges at others. I’ve heard, occasionally, of something called a cloud, which brings another something, called rain, which is supposedly when water falls from the sky.
I always suspected that the travelers who told such tales were lying or exaggerating – but, as I stand on the edge of the cliff, staring up at the sky, I’m frighteningly aware that maybe they weren’t, which means that I know even less than I ever expected.
But it’s beautiful, somehow. Not as beautiful as our forest, because nothing ever is, but beautiful nevertheless.
I risk a look down from the sky, to try and find the place where it meets the horizon, and what I see sends me stumbling backwards. It can’t be possible that I’m looking at water. There is never that much water in one place, and water isn’t supposed to be that murky, steel blue color; water is the color of polished sapphires, and always so clear that you can see the bottom, and I can’t see anything at all in…whatever this is meant to be. It stretches out from horizon to horizon, undulating strangely, each bob crested by something white. Whenever a bob tumbles over itself, it makes a sound, so the water sounds like – something. I don’t know how to describe the noise; I’ve never heard anything like it before. It’s almost like wind, if wind had substance to it.
I’ve been the wind before. I know how it feels to be formless, weightless. That…liquid mass is not wind, but it is almost like it, in the way that it moves.
It is my curiosity, mostly, that draws me forward. I stretch out my wings, test the wind, and jump into the air – without the reminder of branches above, flight feels strange. Unnatural, almost, but no more overwhelming than the rest of – this. It’s almost too much, almost everything, and I don’t know where to put the way I’m feeling right now. It won’t fit in my chest.
I circle down – nice and slow – but hover a few inches off the ground where the liquid mass meets…something. It is dense and pale, and it reminds me of grain, but much, much smaller; where it touches the water, it darkens, but further back, towards the coast, it’s so pale that it’s nearly white. I extend one hoof tentatively to touch it, and it pushes down several inches, leaving a little half-moon shape when I jerk it back. It seems…solid, probably, and, even if it isn’t, I can fly. I land slowly, one hoof after another, and, although it shifts awkwardly beneath my hooves in a way that doesn’t feel at all solid, I don’t feel like I’m about to sink into it.
The liquid rushes towards me, then falls back in on itself. I don’t understand why - there were rivers, back home, and streams, and they moved, but not like this. It seems like it is getting closer, somehow; each frothy extension seems to travel a bit further than the last, that white sticky stuff lingering on the grains like a marker. I extend one leg hesitantly, unsure of what the liquid may do to me if I touch it, and tap the very tip of it to the surface.
Nothing happens. Absolutely nothing – and, before I can pull my hoof away again, the liquid bites back, splashing my entire foreleg in it. It seems to cling oddly, as though there is some solid quality, and, when I pull my leg back and rest it in the wind, it feels like there is something gritty caught in my coat.
It only strikes me after I have taken a mouthful of it that it is a very, very foolish thing to do. I don’t even have enough time to curse the impulse before my mouth is flooded with a reprehensible taste; I manage to spit out some of it, but some of it is sucked down my throat, and it makes me want to vomit. I choke, trying to cough it up, and fall back several steps, my wings flaring out to keep my balance. My mouth feels raw, and there is this horrible, stinging sensation in my nose.
I bury my hooves in the grainy substance, eyeing that gnawing liquid skeptically. Disgusting, absolutely disgusting – but I don’t feel ill, beyond a nauseating aftertaste, so hopefully it isn’t anything dangerous. I shake my head, looking up and ahead and down the shore each way.
The landscape looks repetitive, somehow, in its foreignness - and it occurs, abruptly, to me that I know nothing about this place or its people, and I have absolutely no idea where to go.
@open! || hi, this is nic, and she knows absolutely nothing about anything in spite of living like fifty lives before this. || gregory orr, "once the two of us" "Speech!"
season of change had begun in Dune. He thinks it all started if not the moment he met Sereia, around that period in time. Even in hindsight, it is hard to pinpoint exactly when these things happened.
How many dreamers had there been since her? Dozens? Hundreds? They had all begun to blur together, their faces and names and landscapes coalescing in the sticky, hazy, wonderful-- and sometimes terrifying-- thing he began to call, simply the Dreaming.
From this nebulous, collective landscape unknowingly shared, and contributed to, by every dreamer, a few key individuals touched the boy in particular. Some dreamers had Dune spellbound, and for whatever reason (being dreams, the reasons were rarely reasonable) they latched fiercely to his memories. Be it the warmth of a circlet pressed like a kiss to his forehead, or the clawing claustrophobia of a maze known with too much familiarity… or the golden eyes of a girl with an unbearable secret hidden behind her lips.
Why was she so sad?
He did not expect to ever see her again. The problem with Dune’s magic is that it is-- at the moment-- almost entirely out of his control. It was possible to end up in the same dream twice, but highly unlikely. On more occasions than he cared to admit, Dune had tried to choose the dream. It was never to any success. So when he first opens his eyes to a world that seems vaguely familiar, he tries his best to ignore the rush of hope that tickles behind the ribcage.
The landscape itself is new to him. He stands on a beach that spans as far as the eye can see. The sun is just barely kissing the edge of the sea, and the sky above it is lit up in shades of gold and orange that fade at their edges to a deep, rich darkness. Against the shore the waves rush in almost eerily quiet. The sand glitters strangely in the waxing daylight-- when he takes a closer look he realizes it is not sand as he knows it but diamonds and pearl ground very finely.
And when he looks up she is there, standing in the waves with her eyes bright and warm as flames. His heart beats a little faster as he says in disbelief- “Sereia?” He takes a step towards her and the ocean at his ankles is warm as blood and beating, beating, beating...
“Do you remember me?” The dreamers often did not, and even if she did, surely there’s something different about him now. Would she notice the confident draw of his head, the assurance behind his voice? Last time, he spent so much time hiding behind a looking glass, showing her the desert on bird’s wings instead of his face, his voice, the strange little nuances of his heart.
It doesn’t matter if she remembers. It didn’t matter if Warset remembered, or Elena, or Orestes, or any of his dreamers-- not that a small, defiant part of him would ever stop hoping. “Wait, I have something for you.” It takes a bit of dream magic that he’s been practicing. He could not yet bend the fabric of the dream to make matter where there was none, but he could change his own form and had learned to use this for a clever (if painful) workaround.
Dune shifts so that his right side is facing away from her, for the feat was quite gruesome, and from the flesh of his shoulder he grows a crystal. It is small, no bigger than a walnut, but the effort draws sweat from his brow. The hardest part is separating it from his skin, which he does in one quick, fluid motion with a soft gasp of pain.
A moment later, in the space between Dune and the dreamer floats a desert rose, named for the bladelike crystals that formed a shape somewhat like a flower. He had found this particular rose one day in the canyons, and had studied it very closely so that he might one day be able to replicate it in the dreaming. It was not a perfect recreation of the one he had found, but he was proud of himself nonetheless. “It, uh, made me think of you.” He feels suddenly bashful as he meets her golden gaze on the other side of the floating crystal, but where the Dune of last time would have looked away this Dune takes another step forward, and he shyly smiles.
☾
And what on earth are dreams if not our only way of speaking?
« r » | @Sereia
Another dream for you! posted in Terminus Sea because I imagine him sleeping by the ocean, listening to it as he dreams <3
