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+---- Thread: [P] dark so long we thought the day was lost; (/showthread.php?tid=5275)
dark so long we thought the day was lost; - Elchanan - 07-26-2020
this night is irreparable. but where you are, it's still light;
Up here the air is cold and thin with altitude. Elchanan’s lungs prickle as he breathes it in; now that fall has fully settled in, the nights are chilly and, unfortunately, growing shorter. Most of Novus is likely to be huddled inside their houses and restaurants, bathing in the warmth of a bonfire, or celebrating what’s left of the daylight at one of the Court festivals; and part of him wishes he could join them, steal a kiss or a purse of gold coins. But there are fewer hours every passing day that the priest can comfortably spend outside, so he takes advantage of them where he can.
Overhead, the half-full moon drips globs of silver light onto the mountain, and washes the white of its snow into the color and shine of mercury. Here the world seems as beautiful and empty as a fairytale; Elchanan thinks he might be the only living creature for miles around, pests and rodents included. He climbs up the slope doggedly. A careful step placed here, then there. The weight of a body shifted delicately over loose rocks, made even looser by the fine dusting of dew and snow that flutters down from overhead. There are a few brief moments where Elchanan’s stance seems to slip, where his heart trips against his chest in preparation to fall; but the cool, thick light of the moon is a balm against his pale skin (and nothing comes of those trips, anyway).
It is moments like these that remind him the most of home. This kind of night—moonlit, exploratory—had been banned completely; for much of his life even the night’s existence was left up for debate. Back then, he could not have ever imagined it would look like this. Beautiful. Black velvet pricked with stars. A curving slice of light, whose pool of silver flowing down never seems to end. In its embrace, enshrouded by darkness, the archpriest is nothing more than a vessel for moonlight: the tattoo on his forehead glowing near-white, the staff against his shoulder glinting bright gold.
A vessel for moonlight. Just as it was meant to be.
"Speaking"
Overhead, the half-full moon drips globs of silver light onto the mountain, and washes the white of its snow into the color and shine of mercury. Here the world seems as beautiful and empty as a fairytale; Elchanan thinks he might be the only living creature for miles around, pests and rodents included. He climbs up the slope doggedly. A careful step placed here, then there. The weight of a body shifted delicately over loose rocks, made even looser by the fine dusting of dew and snow that flutters down from overhead. There are a few brief moments where Elchanan’s stance seems to slip, where his heart trips against his chest in preparation to fall; but the cool, thick light of the moon is a balm against his pale skin (and nothing comes of those trips, anyway).
It is moments like these that remind him the most of home. This kind of night—moonlit, exploratory—had been banned completely; for much of his life even the night’s existence was left up for debate. Back then, he could not have ever imagined it would look like this. Beautiful. Black velvet pricked with stars. A curving slice of light, whose pool of silver flowing down never seems to end. In its embrace, enshrouded by darkness, the archpriest is nothing more than a vessel for moonlight: the tattoo on his forehead glowing near-white, the staff against his shoulder glinting bright gold.
A vessel for moonlight. Just as it was meant to be.
RE: dark so long we thought the day was lost; - Jask - 07-30-2020
you have heard the stories about how the dead have already cried, like crushed grass and wilted flowers and memories carved into stone, then forgotten.
If he feels anything it is here in the mountains.
Even if the feeling is no more than breathless vertigo, the sort of lightheaded giddiness that comes with air thin as chiffon, it is something. A parched enough man might drink poison if it wets his throat.
Someone told him, offhandedly, that it is a holy place, a seat for their gods at the top of the world. He comes to understand, through listening quietly as the world turns around him, that Novus' gods are unpredictable, selfish, indifferent, but perhaps not outright cruel. Their seats on the mountain are probably empty. They are probably elsewhere, studying other people, eyes turned away from the people that want them.
Jask does not understand Novus' distrust toward its gods. His stomach clenches to even consider doing the same toward his own. They have already blinded and bound him. They have already eaten up everything he had or was.
He cannot imagine the Circle without his blind obedience. Hell, he thinks. Hell is real and it is an angry god.
Jask finds Elchanan in his wandering, musing as much as he can with his emptiness. He has seen no gods here-- maybe they do not exist to begin with. Probably they do not exist. It is just a mountain among many other lonely mountains topped by shrines. Jask finds Elchanan as he is deciding, again, that only the Circle's gods are real, and as merciful as they are cruel, and humming hymns to himself under the white disc of the moon.
He is silver in it, almost the same glossy sheen as the snow-covered rock. For a moment he stands, silent, watching the archpriest round the corner with a grace he could hardly attempt, let alone put into practice. Jask sees the staff at his side and for the first time in a very, very long time something stirs in him.
It is something uncomfortable. Something sharp, like a knife, between his ribs. He can't remember the last time he felt anything let alone the strange blend of longing and fear that bubbles up weakly in his stomach before dying back down.
His long, red robes flutter in the wind, tossing wet mountain snow down the slope, flake by flake.
"Are you a priest?" he asks, addressing the man first. They stand, holy man to holy man, and Jask feels...
uncomfortable.jask
Even if the feeling is no more than breathless vertigo, the sort of lightheaded giddiness that comes with air thin as chiffon, it is something. A parched enough man might drink poison if it wets his throat.
Someone told him, offhandedly, that it is a holy place, a seat for their gods at the top of the world. He comes to understand, through listening quietly as the world turns around him, that Novus' gods are unpredictable, selfish, indifferent, but perhaps not outright cruel. Their seats on the mountain are probably empty. They are probably elsewhere, studying other people, eyes turned away from the people that want them.
Jask does not understand Novus' distrust toward its gods. His stomach clenches to even consider doing the same toward his own. They have already blinded and bound him. They have already eaten up everything he had or was.
He cannot imagine the Circle without his blind obedience. Hell, he thinks. Hell is real and it is an angry god.
Jask finds Elchanan in his wandering, musing as much as he can with his emptiness. He has seen no gods here-- maybe they do not exist to begin with. Probably they do not exist. It is just a mountain among many other lonely mountains topped by shrines. Jask finds Elchanan as he is deciding, again, that only the Circle's gods are real, and as merciful as they are cruel, and humming hymns to himself under the white disc of the moon.
He is silver in it, almost the same glossy sheen as the snow-covered rock. For a moment he stands, silent, watching the archpriest round the corner with a grace he could hardly attempt, let alone put into practice. Jask sees the staff at his side and for the first time in a very, very long time something stirs in him.
It is something uncomfortable. Something sharp, like a knife, between his ribs. He can't remember the last time he felt anything let alone the strange blend of longing and fear that bubbles up weakly in his stomach before dying back down.
His long, red robes flutter in the wind, tossing wet mountain snow down the slope, flake by flake.
"Are you a priest?" he asks, addressing the man first. They stand, holy man to holy man, and Jask feels...
uncomfortable.
@elchanan