Code:
atlas,
He came to the cliffs at times when his mind was racing and being around other people, even utter strangers, felt too suffocating to bear. Atlas was, at his heart, a desert creature,and the jagged terrain and sharp dropoffs of Praistigia were difficult for him to adjust to, at first. It took long hours of exploration to realize the toothed coastline and the vacuous sandhills of his homeland were not so different, after all: they were both frequently desolate, home to flesh-cutting winds, lacked a reliable source of suitable drinking water and were, ultimately, dangerous, though the reasons varied slightly.
Outside of struggling to find the essentials necessary for survival, the biggest danger of the desert was getting lost. Even those with the best internal sense of direction would get confused after long hours of motion in the unforgiving heat, as the dunes rolled around them in perfectly dissimilar refractions of themselves. Here on the coast, he did not need to worry so much about losing his way (the shoreline was large and long and unmissable, after all) as he did losing himself: one slip on damp stone meant broken bones or worse, and a tumble on crumbling rock could introduce him, prematurely, to a dark and watery grave.
Atlas' ventures over the monolithic cliffs became bolder and bolder each go-round. He chose one path to commit to memory and walked it each time as it wound its way through deep crags and climbed up on sharp clifftops. A lifetime of walking made him hardy, strong, and, perhaps most importantly, patient; there was enough adventure under his belt to keep his adrenaline-seeking side sated for eternity. His cliffside strolls were never rushed, and he picked each step with caution, only applying his weight when he was certain he would not perish with the commitment.
It was nearing dusk now and the sea was a black, vague stretch out to the bright orange of the horizon line. Above, the scattered, fluffy clouds were tinged burgundy and wine as the sun drew its claws against the sky in the last remnants of the day. Atlas lifted his head into the cool wind, the dense scent of salt and rime making his breaths feel heavy and cold. Despite summer's arrival, the temperatures on the shore stayed moderate for the warm seasons because of the ocean, and with the disappearance of the sun, it was quickly getting chilly.
The stars were out, though; they comforted him. He scanned the heavens to settle his racing mind and found old friends out of what was once confusion and chaos. Sections of the firmament were blocked by pink-hued cumulous, but he knew them so well he simply filled in the blanks.
Out over Terminus' vastness, he found Azimal, distant and pale-white to the south. It was not the original star he christened with his old name, of course; it changed with his travels and his environment and with him. He locked his eyes on the beacon of light and sighed. The wind stole his breath and stowed it away to keep.
A long time ago, Atlas felt comfortable amongst rushing crowds and bustling noise going hand in hand with living in a city. Now it smothered him, and he longed for wide-open expanses and the burn of the sun on his face. What kept him rooted in Terrastella was as much a mystery to him as the future is to any not blessed with preternatural foresight. Maybe, possibly, his penchant for roaming had faded and he really did crave some sort of a fixed lifestyle; but if this was the case, why did he have so many damn panic attacks?
It just did not make sense. Atlas had seen vicious, bloody battles, been witness firsthand to trauma, torture, and suffering of all accords, watched his mother hemorrhage to death on the floor in front of him, had his whole life ripped and torn away from him not once, but twice-- and now his biggest stressor was facing a moderate crowd on his way home from work to his modest bunk.
A droplet of the vast sea pinged against his cheek and brought him back to reality. With gentle telekinesis, he tucked a corner of Nashira's crumbled cloak tight against itself to keep it secured in the wind, and pushed ahead on his path.
"Atlas" | THANK U SID 4 MY LIFE | Atlas is recovering from a panic attack, come say hi!
Outside of struggling to find the essentials necessary for survival, the biggest danger of the desert was getting lost. Even those with the best internal sense of direction would get confused after long hours of motion in the unforgiving heat, as the dunes rolled around them in perfectly dissimilar refractions of themselves. Here on the coast, he did not need to worry so much about losing his way (the shoreline was large and long and unmissable, after all) as he did losing himself: one slip on damp stone meant broken bones or worse, and a tumble on crumbling rock could introduce him, prematurely, to a dark and watery grave.
Atlas' ventures over the monolithic cliffs became bolder and bolder each go-round. He chose one path to commit to memory and walked it each time as it wound its way through deep crags and climbed up on sharp clifftops. A lifetime of walking made him hardy, strong, and, perhaps most importantly, patient; there was enough adventure under his belt to keep his adrenaline-seeking side sated for eternity. His cliffside strolls were never rushed, and he picked each step with caution, only applying his weight when he was certain he would not perish with the commitment.
It was nearing dusk now and the sea was a black, vague stretch out to the bright orange of the horizon line. Above, the scattered, fluffy clouds were tinged burgundy and wine as the sun drew its claws against the sky in the last remnants of the day. Atlas lifted his head into the cool wind, the dense scent of salt and rime making his breaths feel heavy and cold. Despite summer's arrival, the temperatures on the shore stayed moderate for the warm seasons because of the ocean, and with the disappearance of the sun, it was quickly getting chilly.
The stars were out, though; they comforted him. He scanned the heavens to settle his racing mind and found old friends out of what was once confusion and chaos. Sections of the firmament were blocked by pink-hued cumulous, but he knew them so well he simply filled in the blanks.
Out over Terminus' vastness, he found Azimal, distant and pale-white to the south. It was not the original star he christened with his old name, of course; it changed with his travels and his environment and with him. He locked his eyes on the beacon of light and sighed. The wind stole his breath and stowed it away to keep.
A long time ago, Atlas felt comfortable amongst rushing crowds and bustling noise going hand in hand with living in a city. Now it smothered him, and he longed for wide-open expanses and the burn of the sun on his face. What kept him rooted in Terrastella was as much a mystery to him as the future is to any not blessed with preternatural foresight. Maybe, possibly, his penchant for roaming had faded and he really did crave some sort of a fixed lifestyle; but if this was the case, why did he have so many damn panic attacks?
It just did not make sense. Atlas had seen vicious, bloody battles, been witness firsthand to trauma, torture, and suffering of all accords, watched his mother hemorrhage to death on the floor in front of him, had his whole life ripped and torn away from him not once, but twice-- and now his biggest stressor was facing a moderate crowd on his way home from work to his modest bunk.
A droplet of the vast sea pinged against his cheek and brought him back to reality. With gentle telekinesis, he tucked a corner of Nashira's crumbled cloak tight against itself to keep it secured in the wind, and pushed ahead on his path.
"Atlas" | THANK U SID 4 MY LIFE | Atlas is recovering from a panic attack, come say hi!
