IN THE PARAMETERS OF CANVAS, THE COFFIN OF THE FRAME -
the art of wreckage, how to figure ourselves in the ruins of what we can't traverse.
Oh, seven hells-
When she’d returned to Novus, she hadn’t been prepared for the world to break. When she’d returned to Novus, all she’d wanted to do was check up on Locust and sell the goods she’d collected on her most recent voyage. When she’d gone to the island, she hadn’t been prepared for the world to break; all she’d wanted was a little bit of adventure, possibly some profit.
She wasn’t sure that there was any amount of profit that would be worth what was unfolding before her eyes.
The sun had been up for more than a day already. Even when she’d sailed to the northern-most reaches of the ocean, where months stretched on that were almost entirely day, there were rare periods of darkness, and the sun still moved across the sky; she could see it well, from the deck of the ship. Here…here, the sun did not move. Here, the world was listless. The waves rose up along the shore, but they did not move – when she pressed the bottom of her hoof to the surf, just to test it, it was hard and unmalleable, like ice.
Locust stood in front of the unmoving waves, her lips curled into a dark grimace. (She hopes that it won’t hurt the hull of the Strider like ice would, back in Denocte, assuming that the condition of the water extends to the opposite shore – in the absence of a better explanation for this, her mind defaults to the practical.) She thought of demons, of deep-sea horrors, of gods – she thought of the stories she’d heard of strange phenomena on the waves (which often seemed relegated to triangles), of the strange things she’d seen on the sea. Ghost ships. Many-eyed, tentacled beasts. Voices with no owners. Places where the ocean would end with a great, great waterfall, which went further down than anything she could see from the edge – possibly forever.
This was different. That was strange, but it was strange in a passive way. If it was predatory, it was predatory in a way that was impersonal. When you passed through the horrors of the sea, you had the feeling of insignificance; those horrors would exist regardless of you, and you were not even so much as a speck of dust in their face. This horror was different. It was personal, and it was malevolent. She’d heard tales of the dead, of ancient caves of flesh-devouring acid and land that swallowed up to eat the living.
She watches the sun, still and lurid in the midday – what time was it? – sky. This was not mindless. These were not the actions of something mindless. No, this was horrible because it was intentional, because there was some mechanism at play that none of them were aware of. She thought of crossing the bridge back to shore, of trying to board the Strider and escape to distant shores (if she could find August), but -
She doubted that this thing - this force - was escapable. (Once a shark was on your trail, did you run? No. No, you had to outwit it, to strike it where it would bleed, to go for the gills or for the eyes…) Even if it were, Locust has never been one to run. No, she had never been one to run; she had been one to devour what would devour her.
She’d far rather go down fighting – with blood in her teeth.
|| aaaand done for this round || "sea of ice," callie siskel
"Speech!" ||
STAFF EDIT***
@locust has rolled a 6! She has found a strange, iridescent feather that may come in handy later... This item will grant your character an extra roll in a future RE! Please message @sid or @nestle with questions.
