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+----- Thread: [AW] You want to run – I'll run with you (/showthread.php?tid=3722)
You want to run – I'll run with you - Maximus - 06-15-2019
He likes treasure.
He likes shiny, rare, valuable things.
Is that not what got him into this mess in the first place?
No matter.
The lucent, buttery sun breaches the horizon, splaying an array of vivid, impressionist colours across the sky, bleeding into one another, making shades he’s never before seen in a sunrise. (And he’s seen his fair share of sunrises.) Mauves. Violets. Tangerines. Lemons. Sapphires. Deep, velveteen blacks and blues to his rear where the sun has yet to shine her vaulted mandala of rays through the thickness of the island’s nights. He squits, tilts his head away from the impossible brightness of it, turning to look, once again, across the treeline in which he stands, half-in, half-out; hind feet sunk into rich, dark soil, held tight by myriad roots from big, lush tropical flora, front feet in shifting, bone-white sand.
Shadows, strange and long, cast back from the new sun, they are purplish and lively, and it seems to him at any moment they could unroot themselves from their corporeal prisons and take to searching themselves...
He walks on, weaving through trees—soil, sand; sun, shade—until it seems, heat having been dispersed across the yearning plains of his bright, white coat, he is ready to plunge back in. The forest is deep, thick, verdant and cool in the morning, pleasantly so. Darkly so. Strangely so. Odd birds of paradise sing in from their perches high above, lyre and harp songs, their string orchestras make for a beautiful dawn chorus. He begins to hum as he walks, joining their symphony, becoming one with the thrum of this place—around him, others wander, some feverish, some nonchalant; they all wander for the same reason, more or less. The prognostications of that young horse, that note, that statue: there’s a relic to be found. It mattered not to him that he was not familiar with the God, in whose forge that mystic thing may have been cast.
That’s beside the point.
He moves with hitched, albeit cavalier strides, waking up the aching bones of his body. He had slept, somehow, but he had not slept without fit, and his body felt the punishments of his thrashing against root and stone. When will this end? he wonders; the voice echoes back, ‘when you repent...’ but by then once-princeling has seen something glister in a mote of wan sunlight behind a wide-leaved fern, and does not hear it. He rushes forward, ruby eyes wide with seeking greed, underbrush grabbing at his grey ankles, snapping with his pull and tug.
It is nothing.
Just a jewelled bird who squawks in a light, baroque viola, and alights into the cool, morning air. He curses under his breath, “for Frith’s sake,” and waits for his breath to slow, before stepping once again into the ceaseless march for something unknown.
He likes shiny, rare, valuable things.
Is that not what got him into this mess in the first place?
No matter.
The lucent, buttery sun breaches the horizon, splaying an array of vivid, impressionist colours across the sky, bleeding into one another, making shades he’s never before seen in a sunrise. (And he’s seen his fair share of sunrises.) Mauves. Violets. Tangerines. Lemons. Sapphires. Deep, velveteen blacks and blues to his rear where the sun has yet to shine her vaulted mandala of rays through the thickness of the island’s nights. He squits, tilts his head away from the impossible brightness of it, turning to look, once again, across the treeline in which he stands, half-in, half-out; hind feet sunk into rich, dark soil, held tight by myriad roots from big, lush tropical flora, front feet in shifting, bone-white sand.
Shadows, strange and long, cast back from the new sun, they are purplish and lively, and it seems to him at any moment they could unroot themselves from their corporeal prisons and take to searching themselves...
He walks on, weaving through trees—soil, sand; sun, shade—until it seems, heat having been dispersed across the yearning plains of his bright, white coat, he is ready to plunge back in. The forest is deep, thick, verdant and cool in the morning, pleasantly so. Darkly so. Strangely so. Odd birds of paradise sing in from their perches high above, lyre and harp songs, their string orchestras make for a beautiful dawn chorus. He begins to hum as he walks, joining their symphony, becoming one with the thrum of this place—around him, others wander, some feverish, some nonchalant; they all wander for the same reason, more or less. The prognostications of that young horse, that note, that statue: there’s a relic to be found. It mattered not to him that he was not familiar with the God, in whose forge that mystic thing may have been cast.
That’s beside the point.
He moves with hitched, albeit cavalier strides, waking up the aching bones of his body. He had slept, somehow, but he had not slept without fit, and his body felt the punishments of his thrashing against root and stone. When will this end? he wonders; the voice echoes back, ‘when you repent...’ but by then once-princeling has seen something glister in a mote of wan sunlight behind a wide-leaved fern, and does not hear it. He rushes forward, ruby eyes wide with seeking greed, underbrush grabbing at his grey ankles, snapping with his pull and tug.
It is nothing.
Just a jewelled bird who squawks in a light, baroque viola, and alights into the cool, morning air. He curses under his breath, “for Frith’s sake,” and waits for his breath to slow, before stepping once again into the ceaseless march for something unknown.
RE: You want to run – I'll run with you - Apolonia - 06-16-2019
I LOOK FOR OMENS EVERYWHERE
The island, treasure or not, is the perfect place for O to practice her illusions.
It is strange and new enough that nothing she makes or conjures will ever be too out of place. She is free to paint and sculpt whatever she likes — scores of brightly colored birds feathered in color-shifting minerals; fruits with eyes that blink open and shut against the blinding sun; snakes with tails in their mouths, ouroboros, that go wheeling through the dark forest. And though those exploring the island might watch the things with huge eyes, they do not know enough to realize that they aren’t real, or that the little girl with the axe is to blame.
She stands with her tiny hooves buried in the shifting white sand. At her back the ocean roars and spits salty foam high into the air. Ahead, the jungle stretches back to the end of the world, frothing with birdsong and the wailing of wild cats. Perhaps she should be afraid. But she is not. The magic runs through her veins like fire, and at her side, the hurlbat hangs at its usual comforting weight. There is nothing here that sparks trepidation in her — only curiosity.
Thinking somberly of her mother, she takes a gander at making the sun. A sun. A little one that pops into existence above her head in a totally unscientific shade of purple, turning the pale sand to violet, then winks out the next minute. O narrows her eyes, tries to focus, but it will not reignite. Apparently Solis frowns upon her. Well, whatever.
Something goes rushing past her. A body in a pale shade of gray — she only sees its tail as it disappears into the undergrowth and the wag of his ears, It takes only a moment of deliberation before O goes trotting after him into the undergrowth.
She is light on her feet even in the dense jungle, appreciative for once of her gangly legs and slight weight, and the way they let her weave without pause through the boughs of the trees. Sunlight dapples the damp ground and highlights the sooty parts of her skin. The flash of gray keeps moving through the trees, and she follows easily and deliberately, tossing the hurlbat at her side in her telekinetic grasp as casually as she would a well worn toy.
“Slow down,” she calls out finally, “what are you looking for?”
RE: You want to run – I'll run with you - Random Events - 06-17-2019
A Random Event Has Occurred!
The two horses are not the only ones searching for something.
At first there is only the noise of it, a kind of trembling on the wind, a fluttering between the trees like a pulse just below the jaw. Quickly - too quickly - the hum coalesces into music, high-pitched and strange. It is louder and louder, nearer and nearer, and still the source of it is unseen. And then the first dragonfly comes darting through the undergrowth.
It is jewel-bright, quick as a secret, its body the length of a hand. Its wings are moving too fast to see, but if it were still (if it were ever still) it would be clear in the way that sunlight slants through the lace of them that they are full of minuscule holes. Perhaps that is the source of the strange music.
But now is not the time for finding out. For it is only alone for less than a breath; an inhale later and there are hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, swarming the little clearing beneath the dense canopy, alighting on leaves and trunks and dirt and on the skin of the horses, too. And all the while that eerie music, like a piper.
Some of the dragonflies are a vibrant blue, like the purest wave; some are an emerald green that puts the strange birds’ eyes to shame. Some are ruby, some diamond, and each of them - if they were still for only a moment - would be revealed as truly gemstones, and not just borrowed color. Like the rest of the island’s inhabitants, they should not be alive; but nobody has told them so.
There seems to be a voice, made up of all the sounds of their wings. And it seems to say come with us, come with us.
They do not pause more than a flicker of wings or a dancing of tiny feet on the horses and the rocks and the plants. They are going somewhere, somewhere specific, moving like a symphony of color and noise through the brush.
Oh, will they follow?
At first there is only the noise of it, a kind of trembling on the wind, a fluttering between the trees like a pulse just below the jaw. Quickly - too quickly - the hum coalesces into music, high-pitched and strange. It is louder and louder, nearer and nearer, and still the source of it is unseen. And then the first dragonfly comes darting through the undergrowth.
It is jewel-bright, quick as a secret, its body the length of a hand. Its wings are moving too fast to see, but if it were still (if it were ever still) it would be clear in the way that sunlight slants through the lace of them that they are full of minuscule holes. Perhaps that is the source of the strange music.
But now is not the time for finding out. For it is only alone for less than a breath; an inhale later and there are hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, swarming the little clearing beneath the dense canopy, alighting on leaves and trunks and dirt and on the skin of the horses, too. And all the while that eerie music, like a piper.
Some of the dragonflies are a vibrant blue, like the purest wave; some are an emerald green that puts the strange birds’ eyes to shame. Some are ruby, some diamond, and each of them - if they were still for only a moment - would be revealed as truly gemstones, and not just borrowed color. Like the rest of the island’s inhabitants, they should not be alive; but nobody has told them so.
There seems to be a voice, made up of all the sounds of their wings. And it seems to say come with us, come with us.
They do not pause more than a flicker of wings or a dancing of tiny feet on the horses and the rocks and the plants. They are going somewhere, somewhere specific, moving like a symphony of color and noise through the brush.
Oh, will they follow?
Each participant will be awarded +200 signos for encountering a Random Event! How you reply is up to you; feel free to NPC the dragonflies and where it is they are heading. This account will not be posted again during this thread.
Enjoy!