the great object of life is sensation - to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
There is no time to think, once he makes that first lunge forward with his heart beating in his ears, and that’s a blessing.
Otherwise he might wonder what the hell he’s doing there, with no taste of war but what he watched as a boy - and that less war than slaughter. He has no magic, no weapon, and anyway what good would either of them be, against skin of sand and bones of root? If he were alone, he would have run the other way.
But he is not alone, and his lips are peeled back in a cry unheard over the crush of noise, and the writhing body of the snake is getting closer. He can see the glint of scales, the sloughing of sand in fine grains like old skin, and then -
The beast opens. At first (at first, but this is all happening at once, and there is no time for thought and hardly for action) he thinks someone’s magic or might must have bested it, and it is yawning apart, bursting like overripe fruit. Almost he sits back on his haunches, cuts short his charges, parts to the side like a bit of wave when it meets rock; but it is too late for all that. There are too many horses at his heels, and a doorway with those gods-damned berries growing thick and fat and fast, and his blood is roaring in his ears in a way that sounds like yes instead of run.
Into the blood-red berry-rain he goes.
It smells thick and cloying and strange. He is walking now, blowing hard through his nostrils, unsure of when his drumming hooves became cautious. The only gold in this semi-light is the flickering of the relic, the glimpses of its reflection in the black of - what? August thinks that the Denoctian queen would be useful, then (and likely always). She could build a bridge, or a wall, or anything they might need. But Isra is not here.
That is the first time he wonders about the rest of them - the horses that attacked the snake, or slipped around. There are fewer of them, here, though it is hard to tell in the darkness just how many; his heart skips a beat when the thought crosses his mind that they might all be dead. That he might be dead, too, or dreaming.
There is a figure ahead of him, so black as to be invisible except for the outline of her, the glint of green eyes. She steps out onto the bridge and he watches, eyes narrowed, every heartbeat felt full in his throat.
August doesn’t hesitate long before he follows, only glancing once at the gleaming black floor. Even that makes a yawning chasm open up in him, a wave of nausea.
There is glory ahead, and maybe they’re all dreaming or dead already. There seems little enough to lose.
WHEN HE COLLIDES WITH THE SAND AND THE LEAVES AND THE BRINE, HE DOES NOT WAIT TO SEE WHO FOLLOWS OR LEADS. HE DOES NOT LOOK, PERHAPS FOR ALL HIS SELFISH IGNORANCE, TO SEE IF AGHAVNI FOLLOWS. HE DOES NOT LOOK TO SEE WHAT BECOMES OF THE REST – THOSE WHO BRAVELY CLASHED AGAINST ITS FANGS, WHO DRUMMED AGAINST ITS COILS WITH TEETH AND HOOVES AND WEAPONS. HE DOES NOT LOOK TO SEE WHAT BECOMES OF THOSE WHO LINGER LIKE SHADOWS IN THE LOOMING TREESCAPE. ALL HE KNOWS IS WHAT IS BEFORE HIM, AND THE CERTAINTY OF THAT ENTITY IS IN ITSELF STUNNINGLY BEYOND THE COMMON BESTIARY: WHETHER GOD OR TITAN OR MAGIC, IT IS UNCERTAIN IF IT IS BLOOD THAT RUNS THROUGH ITS VEINS, OR THE SALT SLICK OF OCEAN TIDES. BUT THESE THINGS DO NOT CAUSE HIM TO HESITATE. THERE IS NO QUESTION OF RIGHT OR WRONG – ON HE DRIVES, ON HE THUNDERS WHILE THE BLOOD IS THRUMMING IN HIS EARS AND THROAT AND LUNGS AND HE INHALES SO DEEPLY HE THINKS, FOR A MOMENT, THAT HE MAY NEVER TASTE THE SEABREEZE ON HIS TONGUE AGAIN –
AND THAT MAY BE A BLESSING.
BUT HE CLASHES WITH THE THING LIKE A RAVENOUS HOUND, HIS JAWS WIDE AND TEETH SHARPENED ON ALL THE CASCADING GRIT OF SAND – HE WAITS TO RIP INTO ARTERIAL WEBS OF OCEAN VEIN, TO BREAK THROUGH THE CRISP SCALES OF WITHERING LEAVES, AND DREAMS DEEP A NEW TASTE OF LUST. HE RECALLS THE NOT-MOONLIGHT, THE BIDDING OF THE ANTS, THE DECADENCE OF THE FOREST, THE ARROGANCE OF A MONGREL IN THE FACE OF AN OLD GOD. HE THINKS OF THE WAY THAT HE, TOO, IS MADE OF THINGS THAT HE MAY NEVER EXPLAIN. HE IS A STONE PASSING THROUGH THE EYE OF A SNAKE. THE SHADOWS ETCH HIS SPINE, THEY TWIST AND TANGLE AND CONSPIRE MEEKLY ALONG HIS ANGLES AS THEY TOSS AND CONSTRICT AND BURST THROUGH THE WALL OF EVERYTHING TANGIBLE. BUT WHEN HE ANTICIPATES THE BULK OF FLESH OR SOMETHING LIKE IT, THERE IS ONLY BLEAK DARKNESS AND THE TASTE OF SAND.
ERASMUS BREAKS THROUGH TO THE TRANQUIL DARKNESS, AND WHEN HIS EYES RESET ON THE PLACE OF DESOLATE WANT, HE REGAINS HIS FOOTING AND STOPS SHORT OF THE TWISTING ARCH. BEFORE THE ALTAR ARE THOSE WHO HAVE FOUND A SIMILAR FATE – EACH FOR A SMALL MOMENT GIVEN TO QUIET CONTEMPLATION, BEFORE AT ONCE DECIDED UPON THEIR PATHS. NONE ARE FAMILIAR. EACH FACE IS GREYED WITH A PLACED ANONYMITY, AND HE CANNOT PICK ONE APART FROM THE OTHER AS THEIR SILHOUETTES RISE AGAINST THE BLOOD RED RAIN. “Aghavni?" HE HISSES, BUT HIS VOICE ECHOES AGAINST HIM COLD AND METALLIC AND ALL TOO FOREIGN. THERE IS NO DREAD OR REGRET BUT A SMALL PANG OF CONCERN THAT HE SWALLOWS LIKE A BARB, AND FROM IT RISES A RENEWED HEAT. THE RELIC STOOD ON AN ALTAR OF BLACK GLASS AND RED, RED RAIN, AND TOO MUCH LIKE A CADENCE HE FOLLOWS THE NOTION INTO THE TORRENT OF DRIPPING NECTAR. WHEN HE BREATHES AGAIN HE TASTES THE AIR AND IT IS ODD, A SWEETNESS THAT IS POISONED WITH TENSION, AND HE IS ALMOST REPENTANT FOR THE FLAVOR THAT SWELLS HIS MOUTH WITH SOMETHING AS REPUGNANT AS IT IS DELIGHTFUL. IN THE DISTANCE A SHADOW OF SOMETHING SWIRLS AND CASCADES IN AND OUT OF FORM, A STORM OF FLUTTERING WINGS AND BRISTLING GRAINS OF SAND LIKE A THOUSAND JAGGED MIRRORS. IT COMES, IT COMES, AND HE DESIRES TO MEET IT – BUT HE IS SO CLOSE, TOO CLOSE.
THE RELIC STANDS LIKE A GIFT, AND HE WISHES THE RAIN WAS BLOOD AND NOT HOLLY VENOM.
THERE ARE OTHERS WHO RECOGNIZE ITS HARD PULL UPON THEIR WARES. BODIES THAT PASS OVER THE PLANE OF BLACK GLASS, AND AS THEIR HOOVES CLICK OVER THE SURFACE AND ARE DULLED BY THE SOPPING OF THE RAIN, HE WONDERS ABOUT THE CURIOUS WAY ITS GLASSINE SMOOTHNESS IS INTERRUPTED BY BRIEF RIDGES, TWISTING SPINES THAT RIPPLE AND WAIT. CLOSE AHEAD, THE MUFFLED CRY OF A CHILD DISTURBS HIS SILENT MUSING AND HE WATCHES AS TWO SMALLER FORMS RUSH WHERE THE RIDGES DO NOT TOUCH. BUT IT MOVES! HOW IT MOVES! HE WONDERS IF IT WOULD CRACK BENEATH THE WEIGHT. IF IT WOULD SLIP FROM BENEATH THEM LIKE A HUNGRY OUBLIETTE, AND ALL WOULD BE WADING IN THE BLACKNESS OF SWEET, SILENT NIGHT. IS THAT NOT WHERE HE BELONGS?
YES, HUMS THE BLACK WATER. AND AS HIS HEART RISES TO A CRESCENDO IN HIS CHEST, HE MAKES HIS FIRST STEP TOWARD THE RELIC THAT GLEAMS LIKE BLOODIED GOLD.
A soldier must be unafraid to face death. They must be conditioned to not feel such fear; and when they feel it anyway, because it is as instinctual as breathing, they must have the muscle memory to overcome it. Yes. The fear rushes through her blood with the vivaciousness of a creature cornered, a creature terrified. The middle of the snake, as she lunges, becomes everything and nothing she could have imagined. It becomes the essence of every Khashran she has ever known, and more. It is transformative; intangible; changing even as her eyes analyse its movement, its form, into a different form, something equally incomprehensible: scales like sea-glass, rowed teeth, swords, all and none of those things.
Even as Boudika’s heart rushes with the sentiment of raw fear, her mind and body push past it. What could have resulted in a hesitation, an indecision, is an utter commitment to her purpose: forward, forward, forward the mare drives, as she has always been taught. She does not flinch. She does not stop. Her trident point gleams wicked and bright, and she closes her eyes. She knows death intimately. She has held Him in her teeth; he has whispered to her with many different lips, and she knows that he will never look the same twice.
But today is not for death. Not yet, at least. The snake’s belly writhes into something else. It yawns into the shape or twisting, gnarling roots that bloom bright emerald leaves and ripe, ripe berries. Boudika’s momentum is already carrying her, in and through the over-ripened rain. It showers her in red like blood, red like a curse, and she bursts through the sickly sweet scent and bitter taste to discover the waiting moat.
The mare does not charge through immediately. She stands, feeling the hot, torpid drip of the juice as it slides down her flanks. Her sides heave with her heavy breath and out of the corner of her eye, she recognises that August has made it through. But this island is full of many tricks, and her old soldier’s instinct to attach to another is gone. She does not trust these strange magics and what tricks the island may plan on her mind. The trident dangles at her side, coated in crimson as she is, and Boudika shakes the wetness from her face.
She heaves in another breath, and decides there is no strategy. The island is a changing thing, a living thing, just like the Khashran of her old home. They cannot be anticipated, or calculated. Boudika can only react.
So she does. Boudika steps out onto the moat with the twisting darkness beneath it, and after feeling the strangeness of it, bursts in a run toward the trident. She does not adhere to the “reason” of the glass-like moat; she does not concern herself with whether or not some areas seem thicker than others, or if it cracks beneath her weight. It feels to her, a little like a last break; the moment in which the pitch of the battle changes, and there is an intense desperation where the only option left is a frantic forward charge.
At first all she can see is darkness between coral fangs and seaweed gums. Her blades only drink of sand, and sand, and more sand. No matter how deeply she drinks or digs there is nothing but sand. Thana wants bone-roots and ocean ichor and all the things that make monsters and beasts and gods. If there are others with her she does not head them or their own reasons for attacking.
But when her tail blade should find the roof of the snake's mouth, and her hooves should find themselves dancing wickedly across tongue instead of shore, Thana no longer can see all the bits of beast outside the darkness.
There is only darkness, only black, only nothing to wet this wild hate coursing through her.
So Thana attacks the darkness thinking it is the belly of the beast. All the blackness tastes like rot on her tongue. Every bit of her sings. Her belly sings for the dark, her blade for the way it shatters around her like space at the point of her star. The sound her hooves make against the nothing is a song of death-knell sighs and sorrowful whispers of things she's long forgotten she's wanted to discover. On and on she fights the nothing like a thing unleashed--
like a thing that has found home.
And just as she settles into the void (her broken, weary heart sighs in contentment) the blackness dissolves and she's at the beginning of a path she didn't know she was heading for. The red rain is sweet on her tongue, although it burns when it runs down the tracks of sand-coated wounds on her side. All she can see when she blinks is red, red, red.
Thana is learning to hate that color-- red.
She's about to walk towards it, through it, into it, when somewhere in the distance a bear roars. To her it sounds like a discovery, like a bit of her has crawled free from between this awful magic-made cage. It sounds like freedom.
When she turns towards to the bear it seems to her that the rain quickens to a needle-sharp melody through the hollows of her horn. And it sounds like---
Hurry.
"Death hath no dominion"
@thana chooses option two and is using one of her second chance items
09-22-2019, 09:25 PM
Played by
RB [PM] Posts: 89 — Threads: 13 Signos: 185
It is easier to hunt when the prey is real. It is easier to kill when the thing is made to die.
This is nothing like that. This is magic in the most barren sense of the word, lawless and godless and bereft not only of morals but of rules. The sand-snake does not care for its mortal coil. It cares even less for the petty flight of blades at its skin, swirling through like cloud-stream. O winces as she watches her axe pass through harmlessly. It comes twirling back to her, bright and pretty as anything god-made, and through her disappointment still something like relief aches at the sight of it returning to her.
Thank God, thank God, thank God. There is only so much a girl can lose.
The belly splits open like such a bad seam, and inside is something beautiful beyond words, and stranger, and more terrifying. Blood comes down in ruby-red smiles, berries grow and burst and then wither in the same heartbeat. Roots curl upward, swooping as easily beautiful as any wave on the white-sand shore. And O’s tongue and nostrils burn as the liquid streams onto her skin, but she does not pause.
If anything her hooves fly faster. There is no time to waste, not even a moment of deciding. The relic is shining so close, covered in the sweet glitter of blood, and was there not a thing more made for her, girl born from a gun?
“Fetch,” she mutters to Tuchulca, and throws the axe again.
It goes whistling-whistling-whistling through the air, clear and bright as birdsong. For a moment the world seems strangely calm. And a heartbeat later it all breaks open again with the sound of screaming and gasping and hoofbeats. O is pounding across the sand on nimble feet, following its path in a full sprint, paying no attention to the shedding leaves or even the knowledge that she might—die. No bear will stop her. No wave, no wind, no mortal competition.
One ivory hoof reaches out to skim the stream of black glass, and—
The ocean is suddenly roaring out against the coastline. Sand is shuddering around the moat and the bear like some behemoth is rising up from the sea to rub his scales along the belly of the island. Even the trees (what is left of them) sway as if they are brittle-backed and frail-rooted. Sighs rush in with the wind, whispers of some old language that mortals have long since forgotten.
Is it a secret whispering in their ears? Perhaps the wind is sighing over and over again...run, run, run
But the relic, and the island watching with chrysalis and black-glass, knows these horses will not turn away. It does not matter if it's avarice, or rage, or hope, driving them on. The island knows, like all hidden gods know, that none of them will turn away willingly.
Until the end then, it says in sighs of brittle-backed trees. Until the end.
Path One
It might seem at first that the blackness is nothing more than a slim river of still dark against the sand. Perhaps it even seems that each horse brave enough to step onto that sliver of space moves miles for each small step they take on the black. But for each step they take, and each mile they seem to move, the dark glass seems endless. There is always more to walk, or run, or fly over.
The task seems hopeless.
Ahead, at the endless end, the relic starts to quiver like molten gold tipped down the hilt of a sword. It grows like a flower given rain and summer sun. Like a flower it starts to unfold. Blooms of ruby start to fall from it (when did those flowers even root? How?). And when the first blood-red petal falls to the black path the distance disappears.
Where they walking for miles or only heartbeats?
Between the blooms the relic shines, molten hot and waiting. Who is brave enough to cross this new barrier of blood-red petals?
Path Two
By the time the horses make it to the bear through way of caution, blackness, or butterfly, he is pacing like a wildcat. The chrysalis hanging in his face sway with the movement. Under the membrane it's almost easy to see the wet flutter of golden wings dreaming of flight. He seems more like a restless god than a bear with a new butterfly hanging in his eye sockets.
Perhaps he's a god older than the relic or the stones beneath their hooves.
When the first horse comes they will find between themselves and the bear a strange mirror-like wall. There is the bear pacing endlessly on the other side. In places where he crosses before them there is a strange reflection of themselves and the bear melding together, like beats freshly forged-- half mortal, half god, all wanting.
The bear turns and the reflection ripples like water where he faces the horses. The golden wings start to break trough the green like small birds crashing through the canopy. His mouth opens but it forms no words and there is no movement but the appearance of his dirty teeth. Yet there are words crashing through the glass towards the horses, a siren song with no sea, only glass.
Only the worthy can pass.
His mouth remains open and the twin butterflies break free from his eyes. They fly through the glass towards the horses. But is it a hint or a warning?
Just beyond the bear, the almost-mirror and the glass other horses are gathering around the relic. It seems so close....
Path Three
Ah, the island sighs at the horses waiting to see what fate falls the others. The sand trembles around their hooves it too sighs ah. Even the air feels heavy with it, gavel heavy, as it falls on the waiting horses like a blanket.
And the air, the heavy air, has a color to it. It's blue, ocean blue, and it grows thick like oil as it gathers around the waiting. More and more air presses in for their muzzles, their eyes, and the hollows between their vertebra. It's cool and tainted with brine, and when the horses are carried away on it (maybe it feels like drowning with a death that never comes) they will find themselves belly deep in the ocean.
Oh, the ocean sighs, it was not for you.
Your character has a choice.
This is the third round for the relic hunt. Both the bear and the glass moat have led towards the relic. It's shining and so, so close one one side there is a bear and almost-mirror blocking the relic from reach. At the end of the moat it's a line of red petals that remains the only barrier. Do you crash through either blockage to reach the relic first, or do you wait and try to figure out if there is a trick?
Each round is decision-based. We will give you a set of options for your character to choose from ICly; at the end of the round, a dice roll will be made to determine which options proceed. For this round we will roll for a number between 1-50, the highest number will proceed. If your character proceeds you may continue to reply; if your character does not proceed, you may not reply to any of the next rounds.
If your character has an unused mollusk shell, golden leaf, horseshoe, or iridescent feather from a previous round, you may use that to automatically proceed once even if your character rolled otherwise. To use this reward, wait until the dice are rolled: if your character does not proceed but you would like to, reply to the next round and add at the bottom of the post which reward you are redeeming.
For this round:
Your character may choose from the following options, although you may each write them out differently the core choice must be one of the options below.
Option One: Rush to grab the relic before the others
Option Two: Wait
Please clearly mark your character's decision at the bottom of your post.
Example: @isra has chosen option two.
Each reply to this thread gives you +1 post in an SWP.
All replies after October 2nd, 2019 will not be considered for a progression roll.
To tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk.
Please be advised, tagging the Random Event account does not guarantee a response!
He stands before the bear and he watches closely, watching and waiting as if he is studying the bears every move. But there is something different about this bear, about the butterflies that hangs onto his eye sockets, about the wings that threaten to fly him from the island. But what is far more interesting is the barrier that settles between himself and the bear. It is something between a glass wall and a mirror. He can see the bear through the wall, but he can also see a reflection of himself.
He wonders, if only briefly, if the reflection is truly real. He watches closely, watching as the bear paces back and forth. And when the bear paces in front of him, there is a strange thing in the mirror, as if the bear and himself have become one. It is intriguing and frightening all at the same time. But now was not the time to be scared. Now was the time to be brave.
Eyes look deep into the bear’s eyes, trying to muster the last ounces of courage that he has left. He came here for the Relic and he would not leave him without a valiant fight. Rhone had never once lived his life in fear. Now was the time to stand up, to reach for what he had come for, to make his court proud.
And so when the bear states that only the worthy can pass, Rhone looks at the others around him. He has to be the first. He has to be the one to break through the wall separating himself and the bear. And so, with one final sigh, he races forward, hoping to crash through the latest obstacle between himself and his prize.
There is a sound of clattering, hoof on glass, or sword against sword. O pitches forward as she lands, stumbling thanks to the force of her run, but the sea-black river does not crumble or shatter under her weight. An exhilarated whoosh of breath is punched from her chest. She laughs. A girl’s laugh, a real laugh.
But the sound drains away from her within the next few seconds. Her pace doesn’t slow or falter and yet somehow the moat does not become any smaller. No matter how fast she runs, no matter how many muscles burn under her skin, the distance between her and the relic does not seem to close by even an inch. For fuck’s sake. The breath in her lungs is starting to burn now, clawing streaks of fire against her chest. The drumbeat of her heart pulses louder, and louder, and louder.
And oh-so-suddenly, the moat closes. Sharp fear rises in her chest. She can’t stop running—there are blood-red petals blooming only inches away from her, and the relic gleaming just behind them, bright gold-and-diamonds. So close, so close. Every nerve is buzzing with cold starfire; as she heaves for breath, her nostrils flare blue-black and bright-pink, foam spills from the corners of Apolonia’s mouth as she gasps for oxygen.
But wait.
This is too easy, far too easy. No blood has been spilled nor bones broken; her axe is still right there at her side; contestant after contestant has already fallen away and the competition has thinned from just minutes ago. There has to be a trick.
The gods are not often so kind. Especially not to a Briar.
She does not halt, but her step slows. Her head draws back; a slough of blue-black hair follows behind in a wave. The sound of her hooves against the black glass sounds like a warning. And for once she heeds it. With tightly-wound muscles her stride grinds to a lazy canter and she lets the waves of competition pass her, so many foolish mortals falling for the oldest trick in the book.
I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream // I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam // And I know it's true that visions are seldom all they seem // But if I know you, I know what you'll do // You'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream
It's something out of a dream when Lucinda walks onto the moat. The strange black glass does end up holding her weight, but it feels as if she's traveling for miles. There is some kind of illusion at work for sure because it did not look so long before and the relic so far away. Perhaps the task is pointless now, but she's come too far to give up yet.
There is another following this path, but she does not engage with them. It's starting to feel a bit like a race and, while she doesn't want to foolishly rush herself, she is feeling more determined. Her eyes glance at the stranger off and on to keep close watch of what they're doing. If they managed to get to the relic first, Lucinda would be ready to make a move.
In a way the feeling was strange to her, but not out of character. She is starting to be consumed by the determination and greed the further she goes on this quest. The mare still does not know exactly what the relic has to offer her, but it's an item in high demand. She simply had to steal it, even if it was just to say that she did and come out on top. Maybe she'd come face to face with a god so she could laugh.
A flower grows where the relic sits- taller and taller until it blooms. The petals are ruby red and reminiscent of blood. They cover the path ahead and, somehow, the distance is cut between them.
She stands with the stranger in front of the path littered in the blood red petals. Lucinda glances at them, but they do not move. She doesn't bother asking what they're waiting for and continues forward. Once again, she keeps her staff close and her eyes focused on her surroundings. The relic still sits in front of her, glowing as if it were on fire.
the great object of life is sensation - to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
He breathes out a sigh of relief when the black-glass moat does not bow, or shatter, or dissolve beneath his feet. There is nowhere to go but onward, then.
And onward, and onward, and onward.
August tries to keep his breathing steady as he goes. He tries to settle his heart to the even sound of his hooves on the black-water surface when it keeps trying to gallop on ahead of him. He tries to keep his thoughts focused on the relic, which grows neither nearer nor farther away but only flickers, mocking, like an object in a dream.
It was easier when there was no time and all action. Now, in the silence and the dream-shine of the place, there is time and space for fear to come - first creeping, then flooding, like an ill wind down a hall. His breathing goes shallow, each lungful of air feeding him less than the one before it; there’s a tone in his ears, pitched high and droning.
August stops, shuts his eyes, pulls in a long breath sharp with the tang of magic. When he opens them again, once more things have changed.
The relic is changing, shivering and melting and growing, the only thing in this strange world between worlds. Light shines out from it, so bright he has to squint, and the gold of it scatters his shadow behind him. It sheds scarlet petals like drops of blood until there is a barrier of ruby flowers, a threshold beyond which the relic waits.
And suddenly (again as in a dream), he is there at the edge. August pauses for only a moment, caught on the knife’s edge between his options.
But really at this point there is only one that makes sense.
