you come back from a trip to the east
but you don't come back from the dead
The oasis made Atlas nervous.
It was strange, he knew, to prefer the vast and deadly desert over the gentle, serene oasis; it promised comfort and life, all wrapped up in a white-sand package adorned with a beautiful bow of palm leaves. But as he stands under the baking heat of the sun in the hot umber sands of the desert and looks at the curved pillows of red sandstone in the distance, their illusion of softness calling weary travelers to come lay down their heads, he feels nothing but the threat of being smothered.
It makes sense to him, of course, given his history; but to everyone else lacking the honor of being privy to his thoughts and memories, it probably seemed a streak of folly; turn away the promise of clean water and fresh fodder to, instead, push deeper into the unforgiving desert. Atlas licked his dry, sand-covered lips, and sighed. He ground the grit between his teeth and altered his course towards the oasis-- a universal sign of hope for most, a hulking, foreboding shadow on the horizon to him.
It only took a couple of months of living in Terrastella to realize the meaning of the word 'settled'. The people were nice, and the land was easy, but it was so out of character for him, to ensconce himself in relative comfort as opposed to seeking out terrain which challenged him. There was a wall within him, a great structure built out of survivor's guilt and shame, and when he lived pleasantly and with little fear for his own life it grew out of control, pushing at the edges of his skin and causing pain where the points dug into his heart, stomach, head, and spine. This was the cause for his adventure, he was slowly realizing; traveling north to what the native Novians called the land with the harshest terrain was his own personal form of self-destruction. Like sandpaper, the desert and its attached struggles wore down at the block of self-pity lodged within him, smoothing its angles and making it small enough to digest.
The feeling of unease rolling in his gut makes it difficult to drink. He swallows hard, trying to use the tightness of his dry, parched throat as a convincing argument for taking a sip, just the smallest sip, of water, but as he bends his thick, graceful neck to lower his lips to the trickling waterfall, he remembers Nathely. Suddenly, the bed in which the water streams down from the rock becomes the gaping hole in his dead friend's neck.
Atlas balks, stutter-stepping backward with a heavy exhale as he struggles to contain his fright. It's just a memory, he reasons, eyes rolling skyward. He blames the tears forming on his sand-dotted eyelashes on the brightness of the sun above and not his own wayward emotions.
As he stands there flailing a bit in the midst of his pre-breakdown, he catches the shadow of a dark form on the edge of his peripherals. His head snaps to the side, taking in the sight of the oddly-colored stranger. There was much to see, from the peculiarity of their pelt to the curve of their thin horns, but what struck Atlas the most was their bright, sun-colored goat eyes.
He swallowed again, and when he spoke, his voice was strained and thin-- he didn't like bothering strangers. "Excuse me," he rasped, trying not to sound too pathetic, "but do you know this place? Is the water safe?"
@Baphomet | atlas relives some trauma | "Speaking."
It was strange, he knew, to prefer the vast and deadly desert over the gentle, serene oasis; it promised comfort and life, all wrapped up in a white-sand package adorned with a beautiful bow of palm leaves. But as he stands under the baking heat of the sun in the hot umber sands of the desert and looks at the curved pillows of red sandstone in the distance, their illusion of softness calling weary travelers to come lay down their heads, he feels nothing but the threat of being smothered.
It makes sense to him, of course, given his history; but to everyone else lacking the honor of being privy to his thoughts and memories, it probably seemed a streak of folly; turn away the promise of clean water and fresh fodder to, instead, push deeper into the unforgiving desert. Atlas licked his dry, sand-covered lips, and sighed. He ground the grit between his teeth and altered his course towards the oasis-- a universal sign of hope for most, a hulking, foreboding shadow on the horizon to him.
It only took a couple of months of living in Terrastella to realize the meaning of the word 'settled'. The people were nice, and the land was easy, but it was so out of character for him, to ensconce himself in relative comfort as opposed to seeking out terrain which challenged him. There was a wall within him, a great structure built out of survivor's guilt and shame, and when he lived pleasantly and with little fear for his own life it grew out of control, pushing at the edges of his skin and causing pain where the points dug into his heart, stomach, head, and spine. This was the cause for his adventure, he was slowly realizing; traveling north to what the native Novians called the land with the harshest terrain was his own personal form of self-destruction. Like sandpaper, the desert and its attached struggles wore down at the block of self-pity lodged within him, smoothing its angles and making it small enough to digest.
The feeling of unease rolling in his gut makes it difficult to drink. He swallows hard, trying to use the tightness of his dry, parched throat as a convincing argument for taking a sip, just the smallest sip, of water, but as he bends his thick, graceful neck to lower his lips to the trickling waterfall, he remembers Nathely. Suddenly, the bed in which the water streams down from the rock becomes the gaping hole in his dead friend's neck.
Atlas balks, stutter-stepping backward with a heavy exhale as he struggles to contain his fright. It's just a memory, he reasons, eyes rolling skyward. He blames the tears forming on his sand-dotted eyelashes on the brightness of the sun above and not his own wayward emotions.
As he stands there flailing a bit in the midst of his pre-breakdown, he catches the shadow of a dark form on the edge of his peripherals. His head snaps to the side, taking in the sight of the oddly-colored stranger. There was much to see, from the peculiarity of their pelt to the curve of their thin horns, but what struck Atlas the most was their bright, sun-colored goat eyes.
He swallowed again, and when he spoke, his voice was strained and thin-- he didn't like bothering strangers. "Excuse me," he rasped, trying not to sound too pathetic, "but do you know this place? Is the water safe?"
@Baphomet | atlas relives some trauma | "Speaking."
