As he wanders—nay, explores—the strange island beyond the maw of Here and There, he feels more and more unwound from time. More and more, he feels as if he is drifting, aimlessness beyond what he is used to—this is walking without thinking; staring a at a wide, night sky, and seeing the stars, but not understanding them. Not their odd, bright twinkle; nor their disorienting constellations. And when the sun rises, he cannot recognize east for west. Lost. But more than lost, he is outside of time and space entirely. What an utterly odd feeling, indeed. He had slipped past a juncture in the universe when that ivy wall had perished, leaving the rent in the fabric ripped open and reachable for all who dared. And dared they did, swelling through the passageway like water flowing into open spaces, as if by sheer physics.
How could they resist?
He wanders past bodies who wander past him as he lips strange flowers made of eyes, blinking eyelashes to the sun; birds made of fire and diamonds, eyes of opal and wings of bismuthinite. He traces the lapping, frothy shoreline, the cool, jewelled waters kissing his heels as he walks. How long had it been since he crossed over? Days? Moments? No… no, must have been days. Perhaps a small handful if he thinks back hard enough at the nights, which covered over like a thick, velvet blanket of back and blue. Yes. Yes.
Days. Keep it straight, old boy. You’re not going mad here, are you?
But… is that not a heartbeat he hears? Thrumming from the earth itself, pulsing up his legs and rattling his bones to shiftless sleep where still he dreams. Even in this world of reverie, still he dreams of queer, forest magic, of cackles and of rabbit’s fur flying in the nighttime air. Somethings js cannot be wandered from; some things just cannot be outpaced. Does it breathe below his hooves? The furling and unfurling of a great pair of basalt lungs, granite bones and earthen skin?
I am going mad—
And yet, it doesn’t bother him. He giggles and shakes his head, for he is loosed like an arrow from a quiver he cannot place until he is made to face it head-on. Upon the lips of everyone that shifts through the world—‘’Time is Free. Time is Here…’ it said something like that….’ ‘....Tempus, a relic…’—his brow furrows, and for the first time in days, he feels anchored. Grounded. He is no longer aimless as he makes pilgrimage to that statue to examine for himself the wellspring from which all the whispers come. He comes upon it surrounded by a quiet crowd of bystanders, and there is it again. Creature beseeching from a primal core—a preything’s nerves as his ruby eyes run again and again over the inscription, and he thinks to himself
—who the hell is Tempus?
How could they resist?
He wanders past bodies who wander past him as he lips strange flowers made of eyes, blinking eyelashes to the sun; birds made of fire and diamonds, eyes of opal and wings of bismuthinite. He traces the lapping, frothy shoreline, the cool, jewelled waters kissing his heels as he walks. How long had it been since he crossed over? Days? Moments? No… no, must have been days. Perhaps a small handful if he thinks back hard enough at the nights, which covered over like a thick, velvet blanket of back and blue. Yes. Yes.
Days. Keep it straight, old boy. You’re not going mad here, are you?
But… is that not a heartbeat he hears? Thrumming from the earth itself, pulsing up his legs and rattling his bones to shiftless sleep where still he dreams. Even in this world of reverie, still he dreams of queer, forest magic, of cackles and of rabbit’s fur flying in the nighttime air. Somethings js cannot be wandered from; some things just cannot be outpaced. Does it breathe below his hooves? The furling and unfurling of a great pair of basalt lungs, granite bones and earthen skin?
I am going mad—
And yet, it doesn’t bother him. He giggles and shakes his head, for he is loosed like an arrow from a quiver he cannot place until he is made to face it head-on. Upon the lips of everyone that shifts through the world—‘’Time is Free. Time is Here…’ it said something like that….’ ‘....Tempus, a relic…’—his brow furrows, and for the first time in days, he feels anchored. Grounded. He is no longer aimless as he makes pilgrimage to that statue to examine for himself the wellspring from which all the whispers come. He comes upon it surrounded by a quiet crowd of bystanders, and there is it again. Creature beseeching from a primal core—a preything’s nerves as his ruby eyes run again and again over the inscription, and he thinks to himself
—who the hell is Tempus?
STAFF EDIT***
@Maximus has rolled a 5! He has been awarded +200 signos.
